


Hauntingly

by ObsidianPen



Series: Haunted and Hunted [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Horror, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 133,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianPen/pseuds/ObsidianPen
Summary: What wouldn't I doTo place my hand against your chest; to feel your heart beating strongYour breath is my soul,Your pulse is my song.A story of obsession.





	1. Prologue: The Magnificent Mind of Severus Snape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owlsnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlsnape/gifts).



> This is the second part of a series. Please read 'Mine' before beginning 'Hauntingly'.

Severus was freezing to death. Possibly literally.

No… Not possibly.

_Absolutely_ literally.

He had as many layers accumulated on his sinewy body as he could manage while still maintaining the ability to walk. Stacks of thick wool and fleece upon his back; scarves which covered his entire face save for his eyes; several pairs of socks underneath his heavy, leather boots (but only one pair of dense gloves, as his nimble fingers were still required, his wand held steadfastly in his hand)… countless layers. So many that he felt as though he was closer to existing as an animate, disgruntled pile of clothing than a capable wizard.

Which was all well and good. Severus had been forced to resorting to piling on copious amounts of loose-fitting garments in order to keep warm. He could not use magic; he did not dare… at least, not yet. Not until absolutely necessary. His own aura was also suppressed to a most minimal level. He would not risk triggering any kind of alarm; he would avoid that for as long as physically possible…

Severus bemoaned the inability to conjure up a steady stream of hot air or bluebell flames around his body to keep him warm. But all magic leaves traces, emitting some amount of energy, and Severus was certain that the Dark Lord would have enchantments in place to detect even the most minimal spell cast anywhere in the vicinity of his… of his…

In the hiding place.

Even knowing that his former master was going to be asleep for at least another hour (though on any normal man the potion would last much longer, perhaps even a whole day… but the Dark Lord was no normal man), Snape would put off casting spells until performing them was essential.

Thus, the layers. They were highly inconvenient. In fact, it had taken Severus nearly twenty minutes to get properly dressed before his excursion.

This was his second time in Antarctica. The _first_ time…

Ah, well. It had been a… short trip. Severus had apparated in what he’d _thought_ was appropriately warm attire. After all, he was only going to be there for a moment. It was a preliminary journey, just to look, just to investigate briefly and see if his suspicions held any weight…

What a rude awakening that had been.

There is no proper way to describe the cold that is Antarctica in July.

There is no proper way to describe what -75 degrees Celsius feels like, other than to say that it feels very much like -103 degrees Fahrenheit.

It is cold.

It is very, very cold.

Imagine the coldest you have ever felt in your entire existence. Now imagine that moment and multiply it by precisely one hundred times. Now imagine that exact, magnified moment, except that now you are naked, and your lungs are filled with solid ice. In addition to this, imagine that you have lost the ability to breathe. For this is how Severus Snape would describe that cold, and even that does not begin to do the sensation justice. The cold was all-consuming; paralyzing and horrific. Severus lasted approximately six seconds before he apparated away, shaking violently, simultaneously frigid and feverish.

Fortunately (or, truly, not fortunately at all, because it had very little to do with luck and everything to do with his own foresight and superior intellect), Severus had many batches of pepper-up potion awaiting him, as well as a roaring fire blazing merrily in the fireplace of his quarters. Never had there been a more welcome sight than those dancing flames in his entire life.

The pepper-up potion was gone within minutes. All of it. It was the school's entire stock.

Severus’s ears were billowing clouds of steam for nearly an entire day afterwards. He'd had to tell the Dark Lord himself that it was because he was suffering from a cold and had taken (unwisely) too much of his own potion. He'd even gone into details about how very much he detested head colds. It had been most embarrassing. But, for whatever reason, the Dark Lord had found the continual jets of steam more amusing than annoying, and he'd believed him.

Severus truly was an excellent Occlumens. And, contrary to popular belief, the Dark Lord _does_ have a sense of humor—even if he chooses to only express such sentiments with his closest followers. He had taken in the sight of Severus's steaming ears and laughed.

"I think you are lying to me, Severus," he'd chastised (and Severus had nearly suffered a stream of mild heart attacks at those particular words, though his face did not show it), but his thin lips had curled into a sinister grin. "I believe your tale about having a cold is a clever ruse, and the truth is that you are hot and bothered by my very presence."

Severus had exhaled. And then he'd been dismissed. Apparently, the steam was distracting.

Yes, it had been a very short trip indeed, the first time he'd come to Antarctica. But it had been enough. Even within such a small timeframe, Severus had been able to deduce that it must be where the Undesirable was being kept.

_The Undesirable._ Snape scowled to himself as he trudged along the icy terrain under his many, suffocating layers. He had gotten very used to referring to the boy that way, and, he had to admit, the Taboo had a rather powerful impact on the wizarding world.

Fear of the name certainly does increase fear of the individual. Hardly anyone dared discuss the boy, but even when they did use the 'correct' term, it was always whispered, hushed. Harry Potter was no longer thought of as 'The Chosen One' and certainly not as ‘The Boy Who Lived’… He was thought of now more as a ghost; his name, a curse…

And what a complicated bit of magic, that Taboo! When it had first been instilled, people could utter his first name alone—simply 'Harry' was impossible to put a rudimentary blanket hex on; it was far too common, Snatchers would be chasing their tails all day long—but the Dark Lord, in all his ire, found even that unacceptable. It had taken some time to iron out the spellwork, but in the end it was he, Severus Snape, who had managed it.

Originally it was a task set to Yaxley and Dolohov. But the blundering dolts were… well, blundering dolts. They had been floundering, and so the moment that Severus was moderately healed and able to leave St. Mungo's, he had been asked to assist. The fools had been taking the Taboo hex far too literally. They were focusing on the actual words for tracking purposes as opposed to the intended, translatable thoughts. Language was simply a tool to express ideas, he'd explained to his supposed colleagues as if they were two of his less capable first-year students. It was necessary, therefore, to connect the spoken words ('Harry', 'Harry Potter', or 'Harry James Potter') with the intended, intangible thought of that specific individual. It had been grueling, such complex and sophisticated mental magic. Dolohov and Yaxley would never have been able to manage it. But Severus was, if he did say so himself, rather smart, and the Mind Arts were his specialty (as was brewing Potions. And the Dark Arts. And Defensive Spells. And cooking, though he tended to keep this skill to himself… Severus Snape had many specialties).

'Harry' and even 'Harry Potter' could now be spoken while referencing another person, but when it was The Undesirable in your thoughtful intentions when you spoke the words, the Taboo was triggered. Very intricate magic, indeed, and thus far it was effective… though Snape hardly doubted that any witch or wizard in all of Britain would ever name their child 'Harry' again.

Severus outdid himself on a regular basis. Truly. The Dark Lord had been most pleased when he had accomplished this task of the Taboo within two days, when both Dolohov and Yaxley combined had been failing for over a week. He was invaluable to his former master, even still.

That was very likely to come to an end today.

_Antarctica_.

It had not been easy, solving the riddle of where Harry Potter was being held. For so long Severus had, like many others, dreaded the worst. He’d feared that the boy was dead and gone. But that did not prevent him and the Headmaster from searching, despite the fact that Dumbledore was sporting a rather nasty curse upon his left hand (reckless, idiotic, foolish old man). Albus was certain in his belief that Harry was alive, so hopeful, and so he, Severus, had been hopeful too.

It wasn't until his encounter with a certain Divination Professor that he finally found out _why_ Dumbledore was so certain that Harry Potter was alive. The moment Sibyl had come back to herself, Severus had dropped her to the floor of the darkened hallway like a sack of bricks (it was one of his less chivalrous moments, he would later admit), marching right back up to the Headmaster's office, his breathing labored as though he'd just run a marathon. Severus extracted the memory right then and motioned for Albus to watch it in its entirety in the pensieve. The Headmaster, looking rather taken aback by Snape's rapid return and distressed demeanor, had complied without question.

_…human… horcrux…_

Once he'd fully, physically returned to his office, Snape had expected Albus to look as panicked as he'd personally felt. But this…was not the case.

Dumbledore had _sighed_.

The Headmaster had slowly removed his glasses and rubbed his temples, suddenly looking very much the part of sad, withering old man. He did not looke shocked. He did not look disgusted nor aghast. Once he'd placed his spectacles back on his crooked nose, he'd looked at Severus with no characteristic twinkle in those piercing, blue eyes.

_He'd known._

What followed was perhaps the most uncomfortable conversation that he and the Headmaster had ever had. Which was really saying something, as he and Albus Dumbledore had shared a number of terribly disquieting exchanges. It had led to an even more painful discussion the very next morning, one which included not only Dumbledore but some of his least favorite students about what lay ahead…

"It is up to you, now… Find Harry James Potter at all costs…"

The Headmaster's voice haunted Severus on a daily basis. It was, perhaps, the last time he had heard someone say the boy's full name out loud before the Dark Lord had ordered the Taboo on it.

Regardless.

_A world of white. Asleep, safe and sound… A world of white… The Dark Lord holds him… A world of white… A world of white…_

The prophetic words of Sybil Trelawney were very little to go off of. But they were all he had. And so, over the course of the next month and a half, Severus had dedicated himself to finding out exactly where this mysterious location may be.

It was exceptionally confusing and difficult, especially considering that only days later Hogwarts was infiltrated (Draco, idiotic boy, refusing his help and not informing him of when, precisely, this attack was going to happen), Death Eaters were roaming the castle, and Albus Dumbledore, by Severus’s own very unwilling yet complacent hand, was dead.

The astronomy tower. The Headmaster returned from wherever it was he'd gone (infuriatingly having taken those insipid students with him, no less, but having insisted that he, Severus, stay behind to guard the school), Draco had disarmed him, and Severus had, as expected, finished the job…

It was most dramatic. The vision of the Headmaster falling to his untimely death still woke Severus from his already troubled sleep regularly.

Then, as if that traumatic experience hadn't been enough… the meeting happened.

That cursed, _foul_ snake.

It had gone _insane!_ Severus had not—would never, _ever_ do— _anything_ to provoke such a creature, and yet it had lunged at him as though possessed. If he had not managed to move in that moment; if it would have pierced his throat, as it had seemed so violently intent on doing… Severus shuddered, repressing that memory. It would not do to dwell on it, though his aching shoulder throbbed at the mere thought. His body would never be the same again, he was certain of that.

For nearly a week he'd been unconscious in St. Mungo's. Luckily, however, he was able to leave only a few days after that. They had, ostensibly, already created an anti-venom for this particular poison just a year earlier. A man named Arthur Weasley had come into contact with the same kind of venom, a medi-witch had muttered thoughtfully, her brows furrowed. Such a strange, rare poison. Severus had murmured something very non-committal in response. _Yes, very odd indeed…_

And so, for the most part, Severus was recovered. The Healers had wanted him to stay longer to recuperate and to monitor him, but Severus did not have time to linger on hospital beds and do crosswords while the Boy Who Lived was missing in some elusive 'world of white'. Grudgingly, the Healers had discharged him, and at once he was put to the task of perfecting the Taboo. The Dark Lord had sounded so very tired when he'd made the request, so distraught, so stressed…

_A Sleeping Draught, my Lord, I would advise… I, your humble servant, would be happy to make for you any potion at all, should you request it…_

He, Severus, had been praised; he had been called his most loyal, his most capable… The Dark Lord had even repeated his statement of Lucius's incompetency, made a reference to perhaps setting the task of finding the Undesirable to Severus should Lucius become… unable…

_Oh, I shall begin at once, my Lord,_ Severus had thought vindictively behind impenetrable mental barriers.

A Sleeping Draught was provided.

The hunt began.

Snape dug through his many memories of the Dark Lord in a near frenzy during those few scattered, precious hours in which he knew the Dark Lord to be asleep. A world of white… Presumably, that more than likely referred to a mental state. But there had to be something, anything that could give him some kind of clue, some direction in which to focus… _A world of white…_

He'd relived memory after memory in which the Dark Lord would monologue theatrically (it was an interesting habit that his former master had. He loved to talk about his own prowess, especially to a fearful, subservient audience), searching for anything at all that could assist him in his task. A world of white… Asleep, safe and sound… A world of white… _A world of white…_

And one day, he finally found something.

It was a memory from years and years ago, when Severus himself had only just taken on the Dark Mark. He remembered that meeting well. The brand was still fresh, the pain still lingering… and he had been so young, so eager to prove himself. The Dark Lord's words had mesmerized him at this point, he was nothing short of enthralled by the captivating entity that was Lord Voldemort.

How sickeningly nostalgic, Severus had thought bitterly as he'd watched his former Lord pacing before his Death Eaters, vehemently giving an inspiring, passionate speech, his black cloak swishing about him in a most imposing manner.

"…I, who have explored the densest, wildest jungles and the most barren, desolate deserts; I, who have ventured for unheard of periods of time to the very top and to the very bottom of this planet, to those landscapes of crashing, arctic waves and blinding white; of howling winds and endless ice, and have discovered and manipulated the unique magical energies there—"

Blinding white. Howling winds and endless ice. The top and bottom of the world.

Could Trelawney's prophetic message of a 'world of white'… Could it have been _literal?_

It was a bit far-fetched, but it was something.

The north pole, the 'top of the world', seemed unlikely. It was, after all, in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, and while there were some masses of floating ice there, Severus did not think that it qualified as a 'world of white'. Besides, he thought shrewdly, the 'bottom on the world' seemed a better fit for the poetic tastes of his former master. It made sense. Harry Potter, the Chosen One… Where better for his prison than the very end of the Earth? He quite literally could not go any lower than that. Unless, of course, he was below sea level… Under the water, perhaps in the ocean, submerged to impossible depths—

Snape shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the overwhelming cold of the terrain. He did not want to think about that possibility. And yet, on some level, he had managed to impress himself. Should he ever need to hide a human hostage from the rest of the world for an indefinite period of time, he would put them in an enchanted, oxygen-replenishing prison in the vast depths of the ocean.

But that would be a 'world of black', not a 'world of white', and besides, he already knew that Harry Potter was here. Or, at least, he thought. He hoped.

Severus continued to trudge along towards where he could feel the undeniable traces of magic. Minimal, hardly tangible at all, but resolutely present. An ordinary wizard would be unable to feel it, but Snape was no ordinary wizard. He knew dark magic, he knew the signs, and, most importantly, he knew the Dark Lord.

Lord Voldemort had a certain style to his magic. Severus recognized it like a signature.

He paused. Severus scanned the seemingly empty landscape intently, gripping his wand a bit tighter in his palm. Blessedly, thankfully, the winds were minimal this day. But their distant howling filled his ears, a continuous, nearly vocal sound…

He was close.

Severus lifted his leg to take another cautious, tentative step—

The ground exploded at his feet.

He barely dodged them in time—colossal shards of pointed ice erupted from the ground, pointed tips which attempted to slice him in half as they flew violently upwards—they broke free from the white earth at a rapid pace, one after another after another, and Snape dove forward, certain, now, that he was heading in the right direction—he was on the run, clumsily sprinting as best he could, yet with each step he took another deathly-sharp ice fragment sprung forth from the ground at his feet like infinite, endless land mines, and he knew he could avoid it no longer—he needed to use magic; it was the only way—

_'Pacem Omnino!'_ Snape thought vehemently as he ran, brandishing his wand like a baton above his head. It was the most powerful anti-hex he knew of; if this did not work—

The explosions stopped.

Severus continued to run for a few moments in case it was a trick, but the ground had ceased in its attempt to skewer him. He looked behind him, panting. It was almost comical, the way that the little mountains of ice remained there—a perfect record of the path where he’d run. Severus had, evidently, been sprinting in a bit of a zig-zag.

Well, he thought sourly as his breathing slowed, there was no point in being subtle now. If the Dark Lord had been awake, he surely would have felt that.

He needed to hurry.

Severus turned his attention at once toward that dim, magnetic pull. Wards. An infinite array of them, masterfully interwoven so as to create one, nearly impenetrable barrier.

Nearly.

Severus set to work at once. Dismantling wards had been another one of his many specialties, a technique which he had honed during his years of service to the Dark Lord. As a matter of fact, it had been he, Lord Voldemort himself, who had taught the young, eager Half-Blood Prince how to do it. The Dark Lord was an excellent teacher, and Severus was an excellent pupil.

Snape was probably the only wizard alive who could penetrate and shatter these wards. The Dark Lord had an intricate, clever way of spell-casting that was very unique, very misleading… But Severus knew it, had studied it, had _admired_ it… Even now, as he deftly and swiftly manipulated the interlocked frequencies of the wards which fit into each other like an abstract, mis-matched puzzle, he appreciated just how ingenious it was, how cunningly deceptive… If some auror were to go about attempting to dismantle this barrier in the typical manner of breaking wards, they would immediately trigger a curse… Snape could feel it, the powerful hex that was waiting there, but he could not decipher what, precisely, it was without setting it off… Lethal, certainly; horrific and dramatic, probably… He did not intend to find out…

He felt a slight burning sensation in his forearm. That was… foreboding.

Severus worked faster.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he had it. The wards fell gently apart, like unraveling fabric, and then were gone. Severus silently congratulated himself. He deserved far more praise in his life than he received, really.

Here. He had to be here.

_"Aparecium."_

Severus cast a wide-reaching revealing charm, hoping that he was merely disillusioned. And ah, yes, he _had_ been; Snape felt the spell connect with something—something had been affected by his charm …but nothing appeared, nothing revealed itself…

Frowning, wand still held high in anticipation, Severus began walking, wary—

"Fuck!"

Severus was generally not one for cursing. He found the practice rather distasteful; an abysmal, dirty habit. Unsophisticated. But the pain which shot up his leg was just cause for such a profane exclamation, because even with his many (one would think 'cushioning') layers, whatever dark magic had speared his shin was unexpectedly painful—Snape instantly feared the worst; he had been struck by some terrible hex he had not foreseen, and he envisioned his leg becoming black and deadened and withered like the Headmaster's hand—

But then he saw it.

_The cloak._

He could only see it now because he had disturbed it, making its silvery edges partially visible when it moved. Potter's Invisibility cloak. And it was resting on something, some surface that was just a few feet from the ground, and he had run into it, that was all—the throbbing pain in his shin was not the work of dark magic, it was the merely the repercussion of having collided with something solid (which, now that the terror had ebbed away slightly, he realized was not _so_ debilitating and agonizing).

With a slightly trembling hand, Severus reached out, pulling the cloak towards him. His heart was hammering like wild, frenzied—he held his breath—

It was, perhaps, the most awkward moment in Severus's life.

Harry James Potter.

Severus had found him, all right.

In hindsight, he would wonder why he had been so shocked. Because really, what had he _expected_ to find? The boy sleeping comfortably on his bed from the Gryffindor common room? Lying curled up in a sleeping bag on the icy ground, perhaps?

What he had _not_ expected to find was the boy lying in what appeared to be a transparent, glass coffin, hovering just below his waist, his body covered in countless, glistening threads that connected with the clear walls like filaments made of diamonds, reflecting the light in a bizarre yet beautiful way…

Completely naked.

And awake.

_Awake._

_'…Safe and sound… He sleeps…'_

Hadn't that been what the foul woman had said? Wasn't he supposed to be asleep? He clearly wasn't. His eyes were open, wide and staring _right at him_ , though as he stared back Severus noticed that they were… unfocused…

Lily's eyes...

The glasses were gone. The startling eyes were unobscured, and the familiar green irises struck him like lightning. His heart gave a horrible, wrenching throb. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

Harry slowly blinked. It was only then that Severus realized that his gaze was absolutely vacant. Hollow. When Severus shifted slightly to one side, those deadened eyes did not follow him. They continued to stare into empty space as though fixated on something far in the distance which only he could see. Severus felt as though the very air had been stolen from his lungs.

How long had he been awake?

The mark on his arm gave a sudden, painful throb.

"Shit." Two swear words in such quick succession, this truly was a monumental day. Severus quickly shoved the invisibility cloak into an interior pocket in one of his many layers. If the pain on his forearm was any indication, the Dark Lord was on to him. Perhaps he had felt the wards being dismantled, even while asleep…

Would he deduce with certainty that it was he who had done the dismantling? Severus dearly hoped not. But he pushed the thought of that very unwelcome, very likely outcome aside, focusing instead on the broken boy before him and his terrible containment. Severus ran his fingers along the surface. It was surprisingly warm. Based on the many enchantments that he could feel embedded within the vessel, it was clear that this—this box—was never meant to be opened. It was intended to be permanent enclosure.

Severus wet his lips. This was going to be… this was going to be difficult.

He conjured up several balls of bluebell flames to surround him. There was no point in being miserably cold while he worked, not anymore. He then placed both of his hands on the top of the coffin, his wand still intertwined between his fingers, closed his eyes, and began to pull at the enchantments, prying them apart…

The mark on his arm was burning lightly, a continuous, though still slight, pain…

After a few tortuously long minutes, he had removed all the protective spells which prevented the case from being unbreakable. There were other curses present there too, but nothing damning…

His arm gave a harsher, more painful throb, and Severus grit his teeth. There was no time to go about this gently. He looked down at the vacant gaze of Harry Potter, feeling almost guilty for what he was about to do. He pulled the topmost layer of his ensemble off his back.

The container was obviously filled with warm, comfortable air. But even with the surrounding bluebell flames which made the immediate area somewhat tolerable, nothing, _nothing_ would be able to prepare the boy for this cold.

Another painful rush from his mark. Snape quit deliberating. He raised his wand, pointing it directly at the coffin—

_"Frangere."_

The effect was immediate.

Harry was instantly snapped out of whatever trance-like state he had been in. He inhaled a sharp, audibly painful breath, his body instantly convulsing, going into shock—

Snape descended on him at once, wrapping his naked form in his heavy black cloak. The boy trembled violently as the dazzling, magical threads that had been attached to him vanished. As Severus gathered his shaking body up, Harry Potter clung to his chest fiercely, desperately, as though his very life depended on it.

Which it did, of course.

Severus wasted no time.

Severus held the quaking boy in his arms like a (very distraught, very unhappy) bride, and took to the air. The bluebell flames followed suit, encircling them like a glowing, fiery guard.

Flying. Another skill taught to him by the Dark Lord himself. And an ability which he really underutilized, he realized suddenly.

Once Severus was sufficiently high in the sky, far above the white, barren landscape, he pointed his wand towards the ground, directly at the newly shattered, glass coffin.

The jet of flames which erupted was _spectacular_.

It was small at first. But fiendfyre takes very little time to get out of hand, especially with sufficient fuel—which Severus provided in earnest as he conjured up various, random objects (mostly furniture—his creativity was lacking at the moment), and sent them crashing down into the abyss. Fiery beasts began to take form, snatching viciously at the fodder he provided them. Flames became serpents and dragons and all sorts of other monstrosities, and an untamable sea of fire began to consume the white, white world. The heat rose up to meet them, and though the air around them was now warm, Harry continued to shake in his grasp.

Severus gave the tumultuous flames one last examination. He congratulated himself again. From a strictly professional and critical standpoint, this was a deeply impressive firestorm he had created. And it was still growing.

Feeling satisfied with his handiwork, Severus gripped the traumatized boy more tightly to his chest, and disapparated.


	2. White, White World

**I.**

**The Haunted House**

White.

It went on, and on, and on.

Not quite day, not quite night. The sun seemed to stay eternally in the same spot, hovering motionlessly above the horizon line. But there were no colors in the sky, no stars that he could see.

Just white.

...He didn't know how long he screamed.

It would come in waves, the terror. Intense rushes of adrenaline in which he would scream and scream, the same word, the name, his name, over and over and over again, his voice never growing tired, until, finally, inevitably, he would exhaust himself. There would be a few moments of numbness, but then the panic would return just as terrible as before, and he would scream again.

It was impossible to tell how long this went on. The sun was a useless indicator; his life was one long, eternal day of white.

He scratched at the sides and the lid of his prison, and nothing happened.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, and no one heard him.

It was a vicious cycle of hysteria and numbness, hysteria and numbness, hysteria and numbness…

Until one day, the numbness remained.

* * *

Harry lay motionless. It didn't matter. Even if he did not move at all, his body never grew sore anywhere, his corporal form never knew discomfort. He was certain it was the doing of these strange, glittering threads that clung to him like cobwebs. Some kind of impossible enchantment, one which was keeping him perfectly healthy.

Physically.

He knew he was losing his mind.

"You're probably right about that."

It was a friendly voice, an impossible yet familiar voice, but Harry was too numb to feel anything more than mildly surprised. He slowly rolled his head to the side to see him, because he knew who it was, knew that voice from anywhere—

"Vol—"

He clicked his mouth shut. No. Not him.

He just couldn't say anything else.

Sirius looked down at him understandably.

Before him stood the miraculous figure of his Godfather. He looked just as Harry remembered

him. Tall, handsome, and a bit disheveled with his long, unruly hair. He was smiling, but it was a very forlorn sort of grin.

"I know. You don't need to say anything."

 _You're not real,_ Harry thought. And, just as he figured he would, Sirius nodded. Because he could hear his thoughts, because he _was_ his thoughts.

"Depends on your definition of real, I'd say," Sirius responded in a ridiculously casual tone. He looked up and down at the glass coffin, evidently able to see both it and the boy within despite the fact that his invisibility cloak was on it. On some level, Harry did feel slightly embarrassed, considering that he was both naked and trapped.

"This is… quite a situation you've found yourself in, Harry," Sirius muttered gravely.

_Tell me about it._

His Godfather cracked a smile, and despite everything, Harry’s lips twitched, threatening to do the same.

Sirius let out a long, low breath before sinking to the ground, sitting beside him on the ice. Harry was grateful for that; he didn't much like the feeling of someone looming over him while he laid helpless on his back, naked and unable to move more than an inch in any given direction. The casket was hovering only a foot or so above the ground. Sirius sat near his feet, his back leaning against the left side of the casket. He sighed.

"Could be worse," he said, scratching his head as he stared out into the vast whiteness before him.

 _Could it?_ Harry inquired, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Er… no, maybe not."

Harry did smile, then.

He really was going crazy.

 _Is that why I'm imagining you?_ he mused. _Some futile attempt to hold on to my sanity?_

Sirius shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Your guess is as good as mine."

_Wow. And I thought that you would be trying to make me feel optimistic or something._

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "Sorry. I guess I'm too honest for my own good. I always thought you deserved to hear the truth, even when it wasn't an easy thing to hear."

Harry thought about that for a moment. He knew it was true; Sirius was one of the only people who had wanted to tell him everything from the beginning. But not even his Godfather had known he was a…

"A horcrux, yeah," Sirius finished for him. He sounded almost angry. "No, I didn't know. No one but Dumbledore knew."

_Well… What would you have done, if you had known?_

"I… I don't know. But if I had, at least I could have been using my time in that god forsaken house to try and figure something out. I could have researched it, at least, done… something… I would have done something." He glanced up at Harry's face.

"I would have done anything to save you."

_…I know._

Harry felt the smallest ripple of yearning then. What he would give to have it be real, to have his Godfather really be alive and here, to be out of this prison….

Sirius looked back out towards the world of white. They remained that way, stagnant with only the sound of the ever present, ringing wind to fill the void. The sun didn't move. Time passed in an imperceptible way.

At some point, he wasn't even sure when or how, Harry realized that Sirius was gone.

He felt numb.

* * *

White and white and white and white and white

* * *

Sometimes, he thought he saw him.

Sometimes, he thought he felt him.

The tiniest prickling in his scar, and almost indiscernible twinge of… annoyance? Anger? Emotions that definitely weren't his.

Harry no longer had any emotions.

But no matter how many times he'd tried to reach out to the Dark Lord in his thoughts, he got no response. Without a doubt, He Who Must Not Be Named was using Occlumency against him, and he was unreachable.

But there were times when Harry could swear he was actually there. Watching. A dark, still figure in the distance, marring the pristine white landscape like a blot of ink. His long cloak billowing in the wind, black robes and white skin and red, red, eyes—

But then Harry would blink, and he would be gone.

Either way, he felt numb.

* * *

There he was again.

Harry stared vacantly, his body as static and lifeless as a corpse. He couldn't remember the last time he'd moved. He didn't bother. Why bother?

Why bother?

He blinked. The figure was still there. He stumbled in the distance, looking wildly about him. Panicky.

Odd. Normally the Dark Lord in his visions was so composed, motionless and eerily graceful despite his stillness. Haunting his psyche like a statuesque, omnipotent god in this perpetual whiteness.

Seconds later, and he disappeared.

Harry felt nothing.

* * *

Again.

Again, he was here… but… bulkier. And trudging. Towards him. Not graceful. Not ethereal and godlike.

Odd. How odd.

He paused. Just a giant mass of awkward, black clothing. Even his face was covered. It had never occurred to Harry how very cold it must be out there. He watched him march along for a while, until he suddenly stopped.

He took another step forward, very, very slowly—

What happened next was so sudden that Harry was almost startled. Colossal shards of ice had begun erupting violently from the ground, attacking him… That was interesting. He was sprinting now. The pointed shards—which would probably better be described as miniature, lethal mountains—were shooting up at him, and as he barely managed to dodge each one a new one would erupt, like icy landmines.

He finally waved a wand above his head as he ran, and a vibrant, yellow light emanated from the tip. Harry thought wildly of sunflowers and blonde hair and bright dresses—

The ground stopped exploding at his feet, but the wizard kept running for a few moments anyway. Harry almost dared to crack a smile at the way they moved. It was funny. It also probably wasn't Voldemort.

Harry thought his imagination was very strange.

The man—could it be a woman?—slouched forward for a moment, clearly relieved that he did not just become impaled by giant shards of ice. He walked on.

Towards Harry…

He stopped again. Now what was he doing…? Just standing there… Harry observed him impassively in his peripheral vision…

The sky was shimmering in a weird way… Odd…

He was moving again… He was getting very close to him… The mysterious figure cast a wide spell in his direction, but it didn't seem to do anything… He kept walking, cautiously… He was coming right at him… _right_ at him…

"Fuck!"

 _That_ voice.

Had his psyche conjured up the ghost of Severus Snape to his barren landscape, this time?

It appeared so. And his imaginary version of Snape had just run right into his coffin. While his body was still too frozen to entertain the notion of physically smiling, Harry thought that was funny, too. His scar was prickling slightly.

With a trembling, gloved hand, the man reached forward…

…and then he just stood there.

Staring at him.

Yes, that was Snape, all right. Harry would recognize those black, bottomless eyes anywhere. But it wasn't _really_ Snape, it couldn't be. Harry had killed that man himself. Well. Sort of.

Why his subconscious felt the need to envision Severus Snape right now…

"Shit."

A cursing Severus Snape, no less. The imaginary wizard conjured up a dozen or so little bluebell flames. They formed a circle around them, blazing merrily and bright.

Red eyes. Yellow spells. Blue flames. These were the only colors that made up Harry's world, and none of them were real.

Snape had his hands on the casket, his eyes closed. Harry was just blinking lazily, hoping that he would disappear already, and Sirius would maybe come back, instead…

And then his scar began to burn. No longer just a light prickling, it was decidedly painful now. Harry had not felt that in a very, very long time…

Was this maybe… was this real?

No… if that was really Snape… If he was really alive…

The burning in Harry’s scar continued to intensify, forcing him into a state of lucidity which he had not felt in ages. His finger twitched, and it felt foreign to him…

If this was _real…_

 _…I wonder if he'll kill me_ , Harry thought as he looked vacantly at the Potions Master. His dark eyes were still closed, deep in thought…

_No._

Harry felt a tremor of… _something_ at the unexpected sound. The Dark Lord's voice, so long absent, once more in his head. His heart lurched in his chest as thought it had just come back to life in a violent way.

_Your life is too precious._

_Touching,_ Harry thought without missing a beat. He watched Snape intently now, wondering what he was doing _. I suspect he will. He knows what I am._

His scar gave a particularly painful throb.

Snape pulled one of the black cloaks from his back. He raised his wand, glancing up at Harry, something resembling pity in those dark eyes…

_"Frangere."_

It was like being dropped into an ocean of ice water.

The cold hit him grotesquely hard. Every single cell in Harry's body screamed in shock and pain at the sudden impact of it—he was grasping for breath, his throat burning as the frigid air invaded his lungs—

Snape wrapped him up at once. Harry felt like his mind had just shattered along with his crystal prison, so sharply struck with reality he was, and the burning sensation in his scar was escalating even still—he was shaking, shaking—

Snape was pulling him to his chest and there were blue flames surrounding them and this couldn't be real after all because now Snape was gathering him up and holding him and what was this craziness because he could swear that they were _flying_ —

Harry closed his eyes tightly and buried his face into his supposed savior's chest. It was altogether too overwhelming; this must be insanity—

Heat came billowing from below, but Harry didn't dare look to see what was happening. He could hear screeches; roars, almost, and the intense crackling of tumultuous flames—heat was rising up to meet them in droves—

_No—_

Voldemort's piercing voice in his head again. It sounded desperate. Harry had never heard the Dark Lord sound desperate.

 _You won't make it in time,_ he thought, and he didn't know what made him respond that way, but there was something intensely satisfying, even in that wild moment, about hearing weakness in the Dark Lord's voice and exploiting it. Harry felt the waves of anxiety and desperation and knew that they were for him, and it had an oddly sobering effect on his mind.

_You've lost me, Tom…_

Fear. It was definitely fear, now. Harry basked in it as Snape pulled him tighter to his chest.

_Goodbye, Tom._

* * *

If there was anything in the world that could have made Harry feel more upset and uncomfortable in that moment, it was the sensation of apparation.

Though he didn't know that's what it was when it was happening. He only knew—or thought he knew—if this was, in fact, real—that he was wrapped in a heavy cloak, shivering terribly, being held in Snape's arms like a child, and then, together, they were compressed into something about the size and width of envelope, and then that was crumpled up and shoved very forcefully through a tight, rubber tube.

Already having difficulty breathing, this sensation made the task absolutely impossible. Harry felt bile rising in the back of his throat, and he was sure that he was going to be violently sick very, very soon.

They hit the ground. Air of a tolerable temperature rushed into his lungs in a most welcome manner. Harry kept his eyes tightly closed, still unsure as to whether or not he could accept this as reality, but he was vaguely aware that they were moving—a door opened and then closed behind them—

Harry did wretch slightly, but he did not throw up. Later he would realize that this was surely only due to the fact that he had not technically eaten in a very long time.

"Professor?"

A familiar voice—but it couldn't be…

"Professor, is that y— _holy shit_."

Harry didn't look. This couldn't be real. He was dreaming again, this wasn't real, and his scar was on fire—

"H-holy shit!" the same voice repeated, completely aghast.

"Move."

Shuffling, someone moving, and he was being carried away—he still did not look—footsteps, more of them, who—

"Is he back?"

Another familiar voice, but Harry could not even bring himself to consider this one—

"Is that—oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! It's him! Ron, It's you-know who!"

"What!?" A very horrified yelp from somewhere further away—but it couldn't actually be—

"Not _that_ you-know-who! _Our_ you-know-who!"

Loud, hurried footsteps coming towards him like someone running—more like falling—down the stairs—

"What!?" Much less horrified this time, but equally loud—

"Move," Snape seethed again, his voice cold.

"Oh my god—yes, sorry, yes, move, Ronald—"

Harry's forehead exploded in pain.

Snape began screaming at the exact same moment. He fell to knees, one of his arms instantly losing his grip on Harry, and they both hit the ground, hard. Snapes horrible, agonized cries were right in his ears and Harry couldn't take it, it was awful, he couldn't take the sound or the pain—he scrambled away chaotically, screaming—

_"Severus…" he hissed in a high, cold tenor, summoning his traitorous pupil in the most agonizingly painful way. With a mere thought, the Dark Mark on Snape's forearm would be like a white-hot iron burning into his skin… but he did not answer his call… He must leave at once…_

Something was snapping around him—Harry’s own, uncontrollable magic, no longer repressed by his containment, wild and untamed—furniture went flying; a chair shattered into pieces as it hit the wall—

His head felt like it might simply explode at any moment—there was an inferno in his mind—

_Fire, fire everywhere… In the form of insatiable monsters, chimeras and dragons made entirely of flames tore across the vast, white wasteland…They consumed nothing but snow and ice, yet continued to flourish on the impossible sustenance… The encasement which held his horcrux—his precious soul—was directly in the center of that lake of fire, this hell on earth… All his wards were broken, all of the barriers and obstacles he had created were triggered and gone, dismantled and wrecked… Impossible…_

People were shouting, moving, but Harry's vision was blurred by the fire which was not here—he was curled up on the floor, desperately trying to make the pain stop. Someone tried to approach him, but another insuppressible surge of his magic sent them stumbling away—

"Bind him!"

It was Snape's voice which cut across the chaos, though it sounded shaken. He had, apparently, stopped shouting incoherently in pain, and the screams that filled the room now were only Harry’s own.

 _"I-Incarcerous!"_ a much meeker, higher pitched voice shouted. Harry felt something like rope curling around his wrists and legs, tying them together, though he thrashed against them—

Snape was on him. He kneeled beside him on the floor, and Harry could now see his face. He must have shed a few of his many cloaks, for his sallow features were completely exposed, and he looked very ashen. He pulled Harry's head towards him so that it was resting on his knees, and Harry saw his face upside down, looming over him, his long hair like black, lank curtains framing his pale features. His gaze was completely steady as it bored down onto him, and he placed both of his hands on Harry's head, one on each temple, holding it still—Harry couldn't stop shouting, couldn't stop screaming in pain—his eyes were watering, everything was skewed by the firestorm in his mind—

Snape was muttering… Something was happening, but Harry didn't understand what… The pain in his forehead, that searing, terrible pain, was ebbing away… Was Snape doing that? How was he doing that…?

It felt as though something alien was being forced upon his very thoughts. Snape kept muttering incoherently, like he was speaking in tongues, and when Harry next managed to fully look into Snape's eyes he found that he couldn't look away again. He couldn't even blink…

Snape was doing something to Harry's mind, and maybe that should have terrified him, but all he knew was that it was making the pain go away, driving away the images of fiery serpents and that horrible, burning sensation in his scar… and as it went on, there was something weirdly hypnotic about what was happening… It was a bit like going into a trance, as he stared up at the chanting Snape… Harry felt his straining, tense muscles relax… The crackling magic around him calmed…

And then it vanished completely. The burning agony in his scar was all but forgotten; the lake of fire, gone.

Snape ceased his enchantment and moved his hands away from his head. Harry sighed as his eyes fluttered shut, basking in the cool, muted feeling that was simply not-pain.

"P-professor?" a voice squeaked from above him.

Harry had forgotten there were other people in the room. He had forgotten just about everything except that horrid pain in his scar.

But he was beginning to believe that this was real.

"Out. All of you," Snape said in a quiet voice.

"No! We want to talk t—"

"Out!" Snape roared.

Harry lazily opened his eyes again. The world seemed exceptionally colorful and clear, like he was looking at everything in high definition. Standing a few feet away from him, looking frazzled and emotional, and staring at Snape, but otherwise exactly the same, were—but no—

It was too much. This… No, it couldn't be real. He could not possibly be so lucky. He was still in that crystal coffin, his snow covered, personal hell, and any minute now he would blink and the world would be white again. Harry closed his eyes, unwilling to ever open them again, in case it was all a hallucination—

"If you value your friend's well-being at all, you will listen to me now and get. OUT!"

"Okay." That was _Hermione's_ voice. "Okay, yes, we're going—yes, we _are_ , Ronald—"

Harry felt the footsteps as they left—first one pair; then, grudgingly, practically stomping, another. The door shut. The older wizard pointed his wand at it, muttering something, probably locking it and making it so they could not come back in unannounced or hear what they said.

Harry was alone in a room with Snape.

He still refused to open his eyes.

After a moment he was being pulled, slowly, into a seated position, the cloak wrapped more securely around his body. The blood rushed to his head regardless of the gradual motion, and there was a slight buzzing sound in his ears. His head felt… different.

Snape's voice was low when he spoke. Almost…gentle? "I need you to listen to me very, very carefully. I know you are feeling incredibly overwhelmed right now, but this is of critical importance. I have placed Occlumency barriers in your mind. They are necessary. They will stop The Dark Lord from being able to see into your thoughts, to even sense your presence. You should be able to feel them. They are not…comfortable, I'm sure. But you must not push at them, no matter what, do you understand me? I have gone to very great lengths to make it seem as if you and I both perished. Those Occlumency barriers are vital to making it seem that way. Nod if you understand me."

Harry's mind was buzzing louder than ever. He couldn't… barriers… Occlumency barriers…how could he...was that even...

"Open your eyes."

He didn't want to. What if Snape wasn't there, what if everything was white and white and white—

"This is not a dream. This is not a vision. This is reality, this is really happening, and I am on your side."

That statement caused Harry's eye to fly open: _On your side._ Snape—Snape had killed Dumbledore—he had murdered the Headmaster and Harry had tried to—

"I am on your side. I was always on the Order's side. I will explain everything to you later, when you are ready to hear it, but for now you must trust that I am telling you the truth… I did just save you, after all."

It was so disarming, to hear Snape talk to him in such a… kind way. That, almost more than anything else, made Harry think he must be imagining this entire affair. His head itched and his mouth felt dry, like his tongue was coated in something peculiarly fuzzy. He pulled the cloak more tightly around his body. When had he started shaking again?

"Right now, the most important thing is that you understand what I am telling you about the Occlumency barriers. You must not break them. You must not pass through them. Do not disturb them in any way at all. Do you understand this?"

Harry swallowed, and it seemed to take a great amount of effort. He _could_ feel them… It was a very odd sensation, like some minor, irritating twinge accompanying his every thought, some kind of scratchy shell… The very first instinct he had was to pry them off. They were uncomfortable. But he resisted the urge, nodding instead.

And then, the most bizarre and off-putting thing in all the world happened.

Snape _almost_ smiled at him.

Harry physically cringed, and the almost-smile vanished at once. "Good," Snape said flatly. He waved his wand over Harry in a nearly exasperated way, and the rope-like bindings around his wrists and legs vanished. Snape then got up and crossed to the other side of the room, pulling off a few more layers of clothing. With a few lazy flicks of his wand, he repaired the recently shattered furniture. Harry took in his surroundings properly for the first time.

His jaw dropped. Here. He never… He'd never wanted to come back here.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. And right now, they were in the drawing room.

Snape was back at his side in a moment, a cup filled with liquid in his hands. "A Calming Draught," he explained. Harry stared down at it. His stomach squirmed uncomfortably; he didn't know if he could drink anything.

"It isn't very much, but I believe it will make everything else go much smoother if you manage to drink this," Snape prompted.

Harry reached to take the cup, but when Snape saw his trembling hands he shook his head. "You'll spill it everywhere. Here. Just drink," he said, and lifted the cup to his lips. Trying his best to focus on the monumental task at hand—swallow the potion, don't throw it up, _swallow_ —he managed to take a few sips. It tasted of chamomile and something else he couldn't quite place.

"Good," Snape said. The effect of the potion was immediate. Harry’s shaking ceased, and he did, in fact, feel much calmer.

Once he had finally finished the whole thing, Snape took the empty cup and set it somewhere behind him.

"Do you think you can stand?" he asked quietly. Harry wasn't sure. He supposed getting off the floor might be a good idea, so he nodded, and didn't fight it when Snape put his arms on his shoulders and helped him to his feet. The blood rushed dangerously fast to Harry’s head again, another wave of dizziness in which he sort of stumbled to one side—but Snape held him steady, and, thanks to the potion, he was feeling rather calm and unbothered by the whole ordeal.

Snape all but carried him to the couch. Harry was suddenly very glad that he had kicked everyone else out of the room.

Once he was seated, the older wizard went and grabbed another chair. He placed it in front of the sofa so that when he sat, he was directly across from Harry, face to face.

"There are some… things that I need to know,” Snape said. “It will be unpleasant, but you have my word that this is the one and only time that this will ever happen. It is the easiest and most efficient way. The _only_ way. Do not fight me. Do you understand?"

Harry supposed that probably should have been foreboding, maybe even understand that Harry wasn't up for actually talking, at least, so that was nice. Harry nodded again.

And then, before he could so much as take another breath, Snape was breaking into his memories.

.

...Harry is at Number 4, Privet Drive… He is reading a letter from Dumbledore…but not from Dumbledore… but no, it was, and he had just assumed…

He is on the Knight Bus… Stan Shunpike, Imperiused, killing Ernie… And he raises his wand towards him, but doesn't attack… and then there are arms wrapping around him, possessive, joyous, hungry—

_Mine—_

…He is dreaming… Isn't he? Harry had never seen this memory before, he had been unconscious… The Dark Lord is cradling him in his arms like a lover might, and they are there, in that world of white… A large, strange, shimmering bubble is around them, obviously keeping out the cold… Voldemort is laying him gently in that shining encasement, his crystal coffin…

_Precious soul…_

His fingers graze Harry's face, his forehead, so tenderly… Such gentle caresses from a murderer's fingers…

_Precious soul…_

And then, looking as though it takes a substantial amount of effort, he steps away, sealing the container… He holds his wand aloft, moving it in intricate motions as he begins casting spells, and soon Harry is covered in glistening, magical threads… Wards are built, barriers put in place…

His invisibility cloak…

The scene shifts again…

Harry is asleep… Just lying there, perfectly still, like some modern day, male version of Snow White… Harry wondered how they were able to see him at all, considering the cloak was over him… Maybe because it was his mind? And Harry was able to see himself? He wasn't sure… The memory is so still, it could almost be a photograph… he looks so serene, so peaceful…

And then he is screaming.

He is clawing at his coffin hysterically—awake, awake and terrified and he can’t move and he is screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming—

_“Voldemort!”_

_._

Harry wasn't sure what happened, but suddenly he was convulsing, tremors wracking trough his entire body. Snape had extracted himself from his memories and was in front of him, holding him, back in the drawing room. Harry's magic was spastically crackling around him again, and Snape was suppressing it with his own, he could tell—yet it was pushing against him, out of Harry’s control—

"It's over, it's over," Snape was repeating, and Harry was sure that, if it hadn't been for the calming draught, he would be a broken, sobbing pile on the floor. "It is done… I... had to know the whole truth of what happened. I had to know. It's over now. You will never have to relive that again." Snape held his shoulders tightly, waiting for the violent shaking to stop.

“ _Never_ ,” Snape promised.

Harry cried anyway.


	3. House of Ghosts

It was a slow progression.

Rapid, uncontrollable sobs, which incrementally lessened in their severity, transitioning into a steady stream of tears, until, at last, Harry could breathe normally once more.

At some point, he wasn't sure exactly when, Harry had ended up leaning forward with his head on Snape's shoulder, his former professor still seated in a chair across from him. In the beginning, Snape had held Harry's shoulders firmly with each of his hands, steadying his shaking body and repressing his chaotic magic with some force that felt rather like a heavy blanket on Harry’s mind. Eventually, though, as Harry slowly managed to calm himself, the pressure on his shoulders—as well as the magical oppression—lifted. Snape now sat motionless, as did Harry, his head still on the other's shoulder with his eyes closed.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

The two remained that way for a long time. Harry wondered if Snape assumed he’d fallen asleep, though nothing could have been further from the truth. The very idea of slumber threatened to make Harry revert right back into a panic attack; he did not think he would ever sleep properly again.

Slowly, almost methodically, Harry lifted his head from Snape’s shoulder. He had no idea what to expect from Severus Snape after such a pitiful display of emotion. On some level, Harry knew he would one day look back on this moment with mortification. He tentatively opened eyes, expecting to see a sallow-looking Snape glaring back at him, as was usually the case—or, at the very least, an expressionless one.

He was, therefore, shocked to see a sleeping former-Potions Professor before him.

 _Snape_ had fallen asleep.

Harry was perplexed. Did he, perhaps, just have his eyes closed? Harry waved a hand nervously in front of the other wizard's ashen, still face.

No reaction. Nothing.

Harry's heart leapt in his throat, instantly thinking the worst—Oh God, had he _died?_ —but no, Snape’s chest was slowly moving, he was breathing… He wasn't dead, but… well, asleep seemed too inadequate a word. Passed out, more like.

Harry simply stared at him for a while, not sure if he should find this concerning or amusing or offensive or what. Harry furrowed his brows as he considered this. _Well…maybe it wasn't so strange that he would pass out,_ he thought. Maybe whatever Snape had done to get him out of his confinement had exhausted him. Harry thought of yellow spells and bluebell flames and roaring Fiendfyre—and _flying_ , had they really flown?—and Occlumency barriers…

Probably.

The Occlumency barriers… Harry could feel them now as he sat there, still focusing on breathing properly. How had Snape done that? Harry wouldn't have thought such a thing even possible…

Well, there was no denying that some kind of mental barriers were there. They were irritating. Did that mean Snape was in his mind, then? Could he hear his every thought? Harry cringed. He desperately hoped not.

The last thing he needed was more people in his head.

Harry pulled the cloak Snape had given him more tightly around his body. Fortunately, it had buttons all down the front, so even though he had no clothes on underneath he was still fully covered. It was baggy but stayed on well enough once he secured all the fastenings. It was also very thick. Harry was thankful for that; even though it was a comfortable temperature in the room, he felt the horrific cold from before lingering on his skin like a ghost.

As slowly and silently as he could, Harry stood. Snape remained as still as an unpleasant-looking stone statue. He had fallen asleep sitting up, his neck at an awkward angle. Harry almost thought to move him, for surely that would be very uncomfortable when he woke up—but he quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't really want to face a conscious Snape at the moment, and Harry was grateful for the escape route.

He quietly crept towards the door, wondering, hoping that it had only been locked from the outside. To his relief, it opened when he turned the handle. Harry passed through and gently shut the door behind him.

The familiar hallway was dark, yet despite the bleakness, he was able to see moderately well... exceptionally well, actually. Harry’s hands flew to his face in awe. No glasses. Astounding… Shaking his head, he decidedly shoved that revelation aside for now.

To his left, Harry noticed that there were new curtains around the portrait of Sirius's mother. He frowned, contemplative. Now that he thought about it, it was a miracle that they hadn't set the woman off when he'd come in with Snape. It had been quite a commotion. Were these new curtains enchanted; were they the reason she hadn't joined in the cacophony of shouting and chaos before? Or had she, and Harry just hadn't noticed? Not wanting to risk setting her off regardless, Harry quietly edged along the hall to the right, making his way to the kitchen.

He stood outside the door with his hand resting on the knob. Waiting, listening. He could hear murmuring voices from the other side.

A large portion of him was still certain that this must be a dream.

"…don't know why we shouldn't tell him everything—"

_Ron._

"You know precisely why, besides, we don't know what state he's in… Who knows what being asleep that long does to someone…"

_Hermione._

"He's been in there with Snape a long time. Can we blast down the door yet? I don't trust Snape—"

"What else must he do to convince you he is on our side, Ronald?" She was seething; Harry could practically see her hair frizzing in irritation. "He has risked everything— _everything_ —to save him —"

"I know, I _know_ , that's not it—I know he's on our side, yeah, but—he's still _Snape_ , and he's always hated him…" Ron's voice trailed off morosely.

"I'm sure he's being nothing but kind, and as soon as he is done making certain that he is in good health, will come and get us so that we can see him… if… if he even wants to see anyone right now…" She sounded anxious, distressed. "It's… very likely he may not want to see anyone; everyone reacts differently to traumatic experiences…"

"But he's just been asleep, yeah? Shouldn't remember much, then, right? In theory…?"

Hermione must have nodded or otherwise responded, because she said nothing to that. They fell into silence. Harry's tongue still felt heavy and dry in his mouth.

_A dream. This is probably a dream, so there is nothing to fear. Nothing to lose._

Approaching the situation in this way made it surprisingly easy. Taking a deep breath, Harry slowly turned the knob and opened the door.

It was a frozen moment—the kind which truly lasts only a few seconds but which seems to contain an eternity. Hermione and Ron stared at him, wide-eyed and expressionless, while Harry, in turn, looked back and forth between the two of them. He swallowed so thickly it must have been audible.

Hermione stood, looking very conflicted. She took a tentative step towards him, but Harry didn't miss that both she and Ron had their hands hovering over their pockets, clearly ready to reach for their wands if necessary. Had his magic really been that catastrophic earlier, to strike fear and apprehension into his best friends like this? But when they saw the way Harry’s eyes flickered to their hands, both of them looked guilty.

Then, throwing all caution to the wind, Hermione rushed forward.

"Oh!" she gasped as she wrapped her arms around Harry in an almost rib-cracking way. Harry was so taken aback that he nearly fell backwards, but there was no way that he was going to escape the vice-like grip of Hermione Granger.

Once the initial shock wore off, Harry, half wanting to laugh and half wanting to cry, hugged her back. His face was lost in her bushy hair, and he breathed in the familiar scent that was Hermione. When he reciprocated the embrace, she somehow managed to squeeze him even tighter.

"Oh, how we've _missed_ —how we've _worried_ —" Hermione was muttering into his chest—and Harry only just then realized how much taller he was than her, now…

Then he felt another pair of arms wrap around them both, someone even taller still. _Ron_. The weight of their warm bodies enveloped around him was suffocating in the best way possible.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Reunited. If this was a dream, Harry thought, he would be happy to never wake up.

Finally, after a very long time, Ron was the first to step away. Hermione followed suit, though she still kept both of her hands on Harry's arms. Her eyes were glittering with tears. Harry realized that his newfound, spectacular vision was rather blurry, too. With all the sobbing he had just done in the other room, he wouldn't have thought it possible to cry even more. He hastily blinked the tears away.

Ron was looking up at the ceiling. The way he was rubbing his face with the back of his hands made Harry suspicious that he had been shedding a few tears of his own. Sure enough, when he looked back down at Harry, his blue eyes were watery and shining. But Ron smiled when they made eye contact.

Harry had to actually look up to accomplish that task. He opened his mouth to comment on Ron's ridiculous height, but found that he was unable to speak.

"You know," Ron said in a raspy, croaking voice, "the way I see it… I mean, when I wake up from a normal nap, I'm a nasty piece of work—you've seen it, I'm insufferable—and that's when I'm woken up by my own mum. So, considering how long you were out, and the fact that you woke up to the wonderfully delightful sight of Snape… Well, I reckon your reaction earlier was rather mild."

Ron was grinning nervously. Hermione let out a breathy laugh. When Harry smiled as well, the tension drained from the room.

"And," Ron went on, sounding much more like his old, confident self, "on any given morning, I am also usually incapable of proper speech for several hours after I wake up, so, again, considering the time frame, I'd say it'd be normal if you didn't form words for days. Or weeks. Or… whatever."

Harry actually laughed, then. Hermione beamed at him.

"Of course, you don't need to say anything, nothing at all—I'm sure even standing feels exceptionally strange—here, here—"

She hurriedly pulled out a chair, motioning for Harry to sit at the table. He nodded at her, taking the seat before him and surprising himself at how easily he managed it.

 _They didn't know._ They didn't know what he'd been through. That he had been awake…

Pretending sounded nice.

 _Some people may call that repression,_ said a small voice in the back of Harry’s mind. But Harry was okay with that. Besides, this was a dream.

Maybe.

Ron and Hermione sat on either side of him, still grinning from ear to ear. Hermione seemed unwilling to take one hand off of his shoulder, as though if she stopped having some form of physical contact with him he may disappear again. Ron, however, gave him more personal space. Harry wasn't sure what he preferred. The physical contact was both overstimulating and comforting; the distance was both a relief and a void.

"We've been so worried," Hermione started at once. "Everyone was, of course. The whole Order was searching for you like mad, we had no idea what happened—"

"Hermione…" Ron said warningly. She fell silent at once.

But Harry shook his head, looking pleadingly at her to keep talking. Hermione glanced from Ron to Harry, obviously torn.

"I… I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm so—" She looked like she was about to start sobbing in earnest. Harry put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. He took a deep breath.

"…I'm…I'm okay."

His voice sounded… different. He wasn't sure if it was just because he hadn't spoken in so long, or if time alone had changed it so significantly. Perhaps some of both. It sounded deep and raspy, low and rough. "I'm here now."

Hermione just gaped at him for a moment before assaulting him with another aggressive hug. Ron groaned from his other side.

"Let him _breathe_ , Hermione, you're going to crush him…"

She let him go at once, but Harry was smiling. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she repeated, rapidly wiping tears from her cheeks. "What a blubbering mess I am! I just—we didn't expect you—Snape just showed up with you, we had no idea he would do that today—he hasn't told us much—"

At Harry's quizzical look, Ron jumped in. "Yeah, mate. Snape's been looking for you, but he refused to tell us much of anything. Just said he had it taken care of, not to bother him, because of course we wanted to help… Said we were just distracting him… Slimy git."

Harry couldn't help but share his grin.

They fell into silence. Harry's mind was practically vibrating; everything felt so… real. But only a few moments passed before then the spell of quietness was broken. The door on the other side of the room opened, and in walked none other than Draco Malfoy.

Another frozen moment suspended in tension.

Draco stared at the three of them, jaw hanging open and looking highly uncomfortable. He swallowed hard before saying, "I—"

"Piss off, Malfoy," Ron snarled, getting to his feet. But Harry's thoughts had instantly gone elsewhere at the sight of the familiar boy. _Draco Malfoy_. If this was real—if everything had really happened, then he had seen him—twice, at Hogwarts, and at that meeting—

If this was _real_ —

In a movement that was so fast none of them saw it coming, Harry dove at the unsuspecting blonde, fiercely grabbing at his jeans—he needed to see, he needed to know—

"I—hey—HEY—WHAT!" Malfoy tried to escape towards the open doorway, but Harry had managed to shove him against a wall in the kitchen. He was attacking his pants with a crazed intensity, ripping them off—Malfoy let out a strangled, high-pitched yelp—

"WHAT ARE YOU—" Draco attempted to shove him off, but Harry's chaotic magic, barely contained and just simmering beneath the surface, boiled over again, crackling around him and pinning Malfoy's arms against the wall. Harry tore his pants off with no indiscretion whatsoever.

"DON'T JUST STAND THERE!" Malfoy roared at the other occupants in the room, for Hermione and Ron had been stricken immobile with shock. Both of them watched in mute fascination at the impossible scene unfolding before them—Harry Potter shamelessly tearing the pants off of a rather non-consensual and distressed Draco Malfoy.

But just as Hermione had snapped out of it and raised her wand, Harry was scrambling away as though he'd been shocked. He fell to the ground, suddenly shaking again—he was staring at Draco Malfoy's exposed thigh as though he found it _horrifying_ —

A thigh with a nasty, blackened scar. Harry's hand was in his hair, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The magic around him fizzled and died, and Malfoy was able to move his arms once more. Draco's entire body was bright red as he hurriedly pulled up his boxers and jeans, his pointed face contorted in fury.

The other door from which Harry had entered burst open, and Snape appeared with his wand held high. "What is going on in here?" he fumed, scanning the room. Harry, on the ground and looking dazed, shaking slightly; Malfoy, vividly crimson and adjusting his pants, and Ron and Hermione, both standing and looking completely dumbstruck.

"H-he just—"

"He attacked me!" Draco snapped, incensed. "He's mad—he just—he—" But his face turned an even brighter hue as he spoke, and he seemed unable to voice exactly what it was Harry had just done.

"He… took his pants off," Ron said in a voice that was a bizarre mixture of something like disgust and awe.

Snape looked from Harry to Malfoy, the latter whom just opened and closed his mouth uselessly, red as a tomato.

"…This is real."

Everyone looked down at Harry, who had stopped shaking and spoken like he was in a trance. Hermione knelt beside him, tentatively placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Of course it is," she confirmed in a soothing voice. "This is real. We are real."

"Even Malfoy, unfortunately," Ron added, and the shock of such a strange phenomenon was wearing off for him rather quickly. He was now actively trying to suppress laughter. "Though you didn't need to see him half naked to confirm that, did you? I know I sure didn't…"

Hermione's lip twitched. Malfoy glared venomously down at Harry, but he didn't seem capable of asking why he'd done it.

"This is real," Harry repeated, looking at each of them in turn. His gaze eventually rested on Draco's mutinous one. "You're alive. How are you alive?"

Draco flinched. "I could ask you the very same question," he spat.

Harry smiled. But the moment of revelation—of joyous, pure belief—was overshadowed nearly at once. He sat up, and Hermione instantly helped him into a chair at the table. Everyone stood around him, looking down at him with concern (or, in Malfoy's case, fury).

"Everyone, get out—" Snape began, but Harry cut him off.

"No," he said shortly. Snape had conflict written all over his face, and Harry took advantage of his indecision and kept talking. His voice sounded so steady that he fooled even himself. "I'm fine. I want to… I want to talk. I want to know." He looked from Snape, to Ron, and then Hermione. His heart was loud in his ears as he wet his dry lips, the question he dreaded to ask, yet needed the answer to…

"…How long?" he said quietly.

He was still looking at Hermione when he spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the telling body language of every occupant in the room. Ron, looking down at his feet; Draco, running a hand through his now disheveled hair, shifting uncomfortably; and even Snape, in his motionlessness, seemed to visibly tense. Hermione, however, smiled timidly and sat down next to him.

"Well…" she murmured, and Harry found the small smile on her lips foreboding rather than comforting. She held both of his hands tightly in her own. "To put in in perspective for you, tomorrow is… tomorrow is your birthday."

Harry blinked. His birthday…? But that couldn't be right; he had been about to turn sixteen in a few weeks, last he remembered… If everything he saw was true, it had to have been longer than that…

At the confused look on his face, Hermione opened her mouth to elaborate. But by the time she said it, the truth had caught up to him, anyway.

"You'll come of age tomorrow. You'll be seventeen." Hermione squeezed his hands more tightly. Harry felt his hollow stomach drop.

_An entire year._

Harry stared, slack-jawed. Snape had silently walked around to the other side of the table, sitting across from them.

"I was asleep for an entire year," Harry said in a deadpan voice and Hermione slowly nodded. He thought for a moment before saying, "…I don't remember anything."

He looked up briefly into the dark eyes of the older wizard across from him. Snape stared at him questionably, evidently still conflicted.

_This is how I would like to deal with this._

Only Snape knew that he had been awake—that Harry remembered very, very much. But he didn't want his friends to know; didn't want them to look at him like that… He couldn't, he wouldn't. He thought all of these things very fiercely as he looked at his former professor. Snape's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"You don't remember anything?" Ron asked as he too sat down on Harry’s other side. He sounded hopeful.

"Nothing," Harry affirmed, looking away from Snape to face his friend. "One minute, I was on the Knight Bus, the next I was being… ah, woken up."

How unexpectedly easy, Harry thought with amazement, to talk about this when pretending.

 Repression. Repression was good.

"The Knight Bus?" Hermione said, sounded scandalized. "But—why in the world were you on the Knight Bus?"

Now Harry was the one turning red. But he didn't even get the chance to attempt to explain his own stupidity, because Snape immediately snatched that opportunity from the air like a hawk.

"Because this foolish boy thought that the Dark Lord had set a trap for him in the form of a letter from the former Headmaster, and thought it prudent to take matters into his own hands and leave his household. The one and only rule he was told not to break by any means, and yet he did. Spectacularly so."

Harry glared. Whatever moment had transpired between the two of them before, it seemed very little had changed in Snape's overall feelings towards him.

The monumental dislike was mutual.

Hermione continued to look appalled, but seemed unable to reprimand Harry, given the current circumstances.

"All right, before this conversation goes on any further, we have to address something first," Ron nearly shouted, glaring at Snape. Then he turned to look at Harry, his expression softening. "You need a new name, mate."

Of course he did. The Taboo. Harry knew all about it, but he let Ron explain it, anyway.

"There was a Taboo put on your name a while ago, for some reason… You-know-who couldn't stand people talking about you, I guess. It was all over _The Daily Prophet_ and in the news, it was a real pain. So we need to call you something else. We can't even use your first name without triggering it."

"There's also a Taboo on the Dark Lord's name, so don't say that, either!" Hermione added hurriedly. Harry raised an eyebrow at her distress. "It was put into effect awhile after the one on yours, but it wasn't publicized. They did it to catch rebels. It makes sense, you know? Only people in the resistance who were a threat dared to use it. They nearly caught Kinglsey that way. I know you were one of the only people who did say it, but—well, just don't."

Harry nodded in agreement—horrible memories of that very name tearing his way out of his throat threatened to surface, but he forced them away—and he gave Hermione a confused look. "What happens if you _do_ say either of our names?"

"It causes a kind of magical disturbance in the atmosphere, alerting the Snatchers that someone has said it. Snatchers are ministry employees, dispatched to arrest criminals. Sort of like bounty hunters, they get paid to turn people in…"

"But… wait," Harry said, mind reeling. "First of all—we're in Grimmauld Place—is it still protected by the Fidelius Charm? Now that…"

"Yes," Snape intervened. "Dumbledore made me the proper Secret Keeper before he died." He sounded unaffected by that statement. Harry looked him straight in the eye, unblinkingly.

"You killed him."

Snape's gaze didn't falter, either.

"Yes."

A pause.

"Why?" Harry spat the word at him like an accusation rather than a question.

"Because he was already dying. He'd come into contact with an extremely powerful curse. It was killing him slowly. I ended his life on his own orders so that Draco would not have to."

Malfoy, who had been standing largely unnoticed in the corner of the room, looked up. Harry stared at him, memories of Myrtle's bathroom flooding his mind…

_'…Let's just say that this task I've been given is pretty fucking difficult to pull off when he's not here...'_

So _that_ was what the Dark Lord had asked of him…

"He wanted you to kill Dumbledore," Harry confirmed. Malfoy nodded so briefly it was almost imperceptible.

Harry turned his attention back to Snape. "So you did it. And you're the Secret Keeper here… So what would happen if someone in here said my name? Or the Dark Lord's? Would the Fidelius Charm hold? Are the Taboos that powerful?"

"The Taboo hex is an exceptionally intricate and sophisticated curse. However, the Fidelius charm is also rather powerful… It is impossible to say. If I had to make an educated guess, I would say that yes, the Taboo would disrupt the Fidelius charm, even if only for a moment. But even a second would make us vulnerable. The only way to truly find out would be to test it, but I believe I would be correct in assuming that none of us would like to take that very foolish risk," Snape drawled.

"How do you _know_ that it would break the Fidelius charm?" Ron scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"I just said that I do not know with certainty, Weasley… Though I would know more about it than anyone else, seeing as how it was I who created them," Snape snapped, his crooked teeth clenched.

"You created them!?"

"Yes, Weasley, that is what I said. Your vast intelligence continues to astound me on a daily basis."

Ron glared but didn't respond. There was a beat of silence.

"So… What are we going to call him?"

It was Draco who had spoken. He still stood near the doorway, apparently reluctant to be too close to Harry in case he decided to attack his clothing again.

Ron looked contemplative. "We could call you by your middle name," he said thoughtfully. "The Taboo doesn't have any connection with that by itself…"

Snape's face contorted as though he'd suddenly smelled some horribly foul odor at the suggestion. The mere idea of calling Harry by his father's name, James, was clearly abhorrent to him.

"No," Hermione interjected, noticing the horrible expression, "no, it's still a part of his actual name, I don't think it's the best idea. I was thinking… Well, how about Evans?"

The sour look on Snape's face vanished so quickly it was as if someone had slapped it right off of him.

"You know… Your mother's surname?" Hermione continued tentatively. "I thought it might be a nice way to honor her, you know…"

Harry only had to take in Snape's thunderstruck demeanor to make up his mind. For whatever reason, the idea of calling him by his mother's maiden name troubled the Potions Master immensely… and that was enough of a reason for Harry. "Yes," he agreed, nodding. "I would like that. Thanks, Hermione."

She smiled. Ron murmured something in agreement, and Draco, still standing at a safe distance, shrugged before saying, "Whatever."

Snape said nothing.

"All right then, Evans it is," Ron said jubilantly. Snape flinched, but still made no comment.

Harry grinned. "So, how did Malfoy get here?" he asked, speaking as though Draco wasn’t standing just a few feet away.

Ron's expression darkened. "Snape brought him to us—OW!"

A stinging hex caused him to stop short and clamp a hand to his shoulder. Snape had his wand pointed lazily at him; he had, evidently, snapped out of his odd reverie. "What was that for!?" Ron barked.

"That's still Professor Snape to you, Weasley," Snape jeered, and Harry was amazed that he could so instantly recall the same casual sneer from their school days.

"You're _joking_ —"

"I brought Draco here several weeks ago, yes." Snape talked over Ron as if he hadn't spoken at all, addressing Harry directly. Ron glowered but didn't interrupt. "His death was faked. As far as the rest of the Wizarding World knows, Draco Malfoy is dead."

Draco looked down, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Harry’s brows rose in surprise. "Why?" he asked, baffled.

"Because Draco's life was in imminent danger," Snape responded, still managing to keep his characteristic drawl artfully in place. "Months ago, Draco was officially branded as a Death Eater at only sixteen years old." Harry noticed that Draco impulsively rubbed his left forearm with his right hand. "The Dark Lord did this only to punish Lucius… He gave Draco the monumental task of figuring out how to infiltrate Hogwarts with his Death Eaters, as well as killing Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore, of course, knew this, and this task was then subsequently requested of me. By _both_ parties." Snape’s last word were laced with bitterness.

Harry frowned in concentration. "Did he manage it? Getting Death Eaters in, I mean?"

At this, Draco seemed unable to remain in the corner as though he were an inanimate object. "Yes, I did," he snapped, stepping forward and taking the only remaining chair at the table. He glared as he sat.

"How'd you do it?" Harry inquired, honestly curious. Draco opened his mouth to answer, but Snape waved his hand dismissively as if to brush the response aside.

"It hardly matters how. He managed to do it. Death Eaters roamed the castle, and, consequently, a battle broke out. It ended in the death of Albus Dumbledore and in my ability to pose as a Death Eater while still reporting to the Order coming to an abrupt end."

"But… you're here now," Harry said, confused.

"We're the only ones that know," Hermione said. She still held one of Harry's hands tightly in her own. "No one else in the Order knows that Professor Snape is on our side—no one. Lupin, Kingsley, Ron's family—they all think that he's a full-blown Death Eater. They also think that Malfoy is dead, and that we're… Well, they think that we're… working on something," she ended in a high pitched, soft voice that was nearly inaudible. She and Ron exchanged wary glances.

Harry tried to wrap his head around everything that was being thrown at him. "Why?" he asked. "Why keep that a secret? Shouldn't they know?"

"No. It is essential that _no one_ know that any of us are here. The less people that are aware of our existence, the better. You must accept this." Snape's words were clipped, leaving no room for disagreement.

"But—can't other Order members still get in here?"

"Technically. But they have been purposefully led to believe that the property belongs now to Bellatrix Lestrange. The truth, however, is quite different. Grimmauld Place actually belongs to you."

Harry gaped, stunned. "…What?"

"Yes. Sirius Black left it to you in his will. I am the Secret Keeper, but you are the proper owner. The Order, however, was misled to think that a curse was placed on the establishment which would only allow the property to be passed down to a Pureblood witch of wizard. They believe it belongs now to Bellatrix. They will not attempt to enter the property."

Harry stared in disbelief. He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he now owned Sirius's old house; the home which he'd hated so much… He shoved the thought aside.

"Okay…" Harry said slowly. "Okay. I can understand why maybe no one should know about me… and you, now, I guess… But why is Malfoy so important? Why was his life in such 'imminent danger'?"

"Because I," Draco said, his voice dripping with a sarcastic bravado, "am the Master of the Elder Wand." He scoffed at the end, and Harry got the impression that this was simultaneously very impressive and very unwelcome.

"The what?"

But Snape waved his hand distractedly again. "A discussion for a later time. It is unimportant now. What matters is that, eventually, the Dark Lord was going to kill Draco… He just didn't know it yet. And so his death was faked. We were fortunate—or very unfortunate, depending on how you view the situation—to have an opportunity to do this just a few weeks ago. The Dark Lord's pet snake had an unexpectedly violent outburst one day, and ended up attacking both of us."

Draco glowered. "Insane animal..." he muttered bitterly. Harry looked away, saying nothing.

"Quite. The serpent bit both of us, and we ended up in St. Mungo's… I nearly died myself. While I was unconscious, Narcissa managed to make it look as though Draco had a negative reaction to the anti-venom. It was a complicated heist, involving another dying patient, several illegally Imperiused employees, and a substantial amount of Polyjuice Potion, but Narcissa Malfoy is an intelligent woman, and she managed to accomplish the feat seamlessly. When I awoke, she informed me of the ploy. I brought Draco here at once."

Harry gaped, admittedly impressed. "So, is Narcissa working as a double agent for us now?" he gawked, unable to believe it.

The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, becoming dark and depressed. "What?" he asked, looking at Malfoy, who barely met his eyes before staring fixedly at the table.

"No," Snape answered. "I modified her memory, at her request, as well as Lucius's. As far as Draco's parents know, their son truly died that day… It was the only way."

A long, uncomfortable moment of silence.

"…But… _why_?"

"The Dark Lord can sense deception a mile away, Narcissa knew this—"

"Except for when it involves you, apparently," Harry couldn't help but snap. Snape merely glared at him before continuing as though he'd said nothing at all.

"…Narcissa knew this, and so she asked me to modify her memory. Draco’s death had to be convincing, as did the behavior and actions of Narcissa and Lucius. When this is all over, I will restore their memories."

"But… Why not just hide all of them?" Harry asked quickly, looking between Draco and Snape.

"Because the more people we bring in to this, the more dangerous it becomes for everyone involved," Snape said quietly. He stared at Harry pointedly.

The horrible feeling in the room was suffocating. Harry never thought he would feel anything resembling pity for Draco Malfoy. The icy blonde looked more defeated than he had ever seen him—except, perhaps, when he had watched him crying in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, if such visions counted. Harry cleared his throat, deciding to shift the focus away from Malfoy and voice a different thought instead.

"You said…you'd gone to great lengths to make it seem as if we both died," Harry murmured.

Snape nodded. "Yes," he confirmed. "I had hoped that, maybe, I would be able to retrieve you and then return to my station before my absence had been detected. That I could continue to work undercover… However, I do not believe this to be the case. The Dark Lord knows that it was I who freed you, I am certain."

"How do you know?" Ron asked, arms still folded tightly across his chest.

Snape's face instinctively morphed into a scowl when Ron spoke. "Sir?" Ron added on, half-sarcastically.

But Harry knew. The raw hatred that Voldemort had felt was a vivid, recent memory in his mind, the hissing of his name still practically clinging to his tongue…

_'…Severus…'_

Harry repressed a shudder.

Snape rolled up the sleeve of his robe which covered his left arm. The Dark Mark there was an incredibly vivid, dark black, standing out against his pale skin with a powerful aura. Draco physically recoiled when he looked at it, his face clearly sympathetic.

"Had I not cast a numbing spell on my arm from my elbow down, I would currently be in agonizing pain," he said unemotionally. Draco hissed, clutching his own arm as if it had begun to burn by proxy.

"So you can't feel your entire forearm? At all?" Ron asked skeptically. Snape looked like he wanted to hit him.

"Yes, Weasley, as you have so brilliantly deduced, that is precisely what a numbing spell does. It was about the only thing I could do to stop it, short of cutting my arm off."

"He can't… he can't _track_ you with that or anything, can he?" Ron said, voicing the question the very same moment Harry had thought of it.

"It doesn't work that way."

They all turned to look in surprise at Hermione. She blushed.

"Well, it doesn't, right? I mean, Igor Karkaroff had a Dark Mark, but he managed to stay on the run for months. If You-know-who had been able to track him, he wouldn't have lasted very long at all, would he? He was just stupid, he didn't fake his death convincingly, like Professor Snape has…and the Marks only work one way. You-know-who made them very specific to his cause. The only way any of his followers can affect him is to intentionally summon, and even that was purposefully made to be difficult to do, right? So that he could only be bothered when it was something critically important—the Dark Lord is the one who wants to do all the commanding, after all; I'm sure he hates being beckoned like a lesser… So, he can send all the painful waves he wants to any of his Death Eaters for as long as he thinks to do it, but the connection is so closed, so specific, that he probably can't be certain if it's truly affecting them unless he's in front of them… right?"

Everyone stared at her in shocked silence. She looked up expectantly at Snape, who said nothing.

"…Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger," Ron finally said in what was a surprisingly good impression of Snape himself. Harry let out such an abrupt bark of laughter he nearly choked. Even Draco couldn't suppress cracking a smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she, too, was smirking despite herself. "Well, isn't that right, Professor?" she inquired hopefully.

Snape looked loathe to acknowledge Hermione's intellect even now. "Yes," he finally admitted. "That is correct. He has no way of tracking neither Draco nor myself through the mark."

"That seems odd…" Harry said thoughtfully. "Seems like the kind of thing he would do, doesn't it? To brand his followers with a mark that, if they ever betrayed him, he could just kill them with a thought. Or at least track them."

"A precaution that I am certain he will implement on his new Death Eaters from this day forward," Snape said curtly. Draco let out an audible puff of air in relief, as if he had just dodged a killing curse right then and there in the kitchen. "But the Dark Lord was not always so…"

"So absolutely insane?" Ron chimed in helpfully. Snape's hand twitched towards his wand; Harry wondered how long it would be until his friend was hit another stinging hex. He grinned.

"He was not always so ruthless or off-balance, no," Snape concluded regardless. "However. The mark on my arm does provide one positive service; it will act as a sort of guide. Should it stop burning for a prolonged period of time, then we can be fairly certain that the Dark Lord has fully accepted that we are dead." He looked fully at Harry now.

"I do not believe he will completely accept that we are gone for a long time. It would be very unwise for either of us to leave the premises. We must be extremely cautious in every way."

Harry was suddenly hyper-aware of the itchy confines of the Occlumency barriers in his mind. "How did you do that?” he asked. “How is it even possible to make Occlumency barriers in someone else's head?"

"It was unheard of until I figured out how to accomplish such a monumental feat…" Snape closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head up and folding his hands placidly on the table in front of him. Harry thought he looked rather like he was listening to applause from an audience which only he could hear.

Harry frowned. The barriers were very uncomfortable. "Er… right. Brilliant.”

Snape's eyes flew open, snapped out of his daydream at once. "It _is_ brilliant," he seethed. "My brilliance is your salvation. You should be kissing the very ground I walk on for my sheer, all-encompassing _brilliance_."

Harry flinched at that, because, despite his great dislike for Snape, he knew it was true.

"Don't be fooled, Evans, it wasn't all brilliance," Ron said defensively. Snape's fiery expression faltered oddly at the word 'Evans' again. "It took him a lot of time to figure out how to do it. There was plenty of trial-and-error involved."

Another stinging hex. Ron swore loudly.

"How did you figure it out?" Harry asked, trying not to laugh. He really did appreciate Ron's protective retorts on his behalf.

"He's been practicing on us, of course," Ron muttered, still rubbing his arm when he was hit with the hex. At once, Ron, Hermione, and Draco shifted uncomfortably. It could not have been clearer that no one enjoyed the experience of Snape poking around in their minds experimentally.

"Indeed. And it's all to our advantage that such a thing has never been done before," Snape continued in his usual drawl. "The Dark Lord knows that you are an abysmal Occlumens. So, when he reaches out through your connection in an attempt to see if you are alive, he will not suspect for a moment that you have managed to shield yourself from him. It will be further evidence that you have perished."

Harry nodded, mind buzzing. And itching. Uncomfortably.

"Can you… I don't know, make them less irritating?" he muttered, scratching his head as if that might make the mental prickliness go away. Ron and Hermione—and even Draco, he was stunned to see—looked at him sympathetically.

But Snape looked annoyed. "It is a very complex, unnatural magic that I am performing, boy. It is a continuous drain on my own energy. They will be uncomfortable, because they are foreign to your mind, technically incompatible with your thoughts. Forced, imposed. Until you learn how to create your own barriers of equal strength, they will remain. All our lives depend on it. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed nervously. "I... Yes. I understand." He cleared his throat, and when Snape raised an eyebrow at him, quickly added a, "sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Good," he finally muttered. "I believe that is more than enough conversation for one day."

Snape stood, fixing Harry with a strange look that made him feel very awkward—like he was some sick relative that he'd never liked, but was now being forced to take care of anyway.

Well… not too far off.

"You two," Snape said once he'd gotten to his feet, looking pointedly at Ron and Hermione. "Come with me."

Ron immediately looked angry, clearly about to argue—but before he could say anything, another stinging hex hit him in same spot on his arm. Ron yelped in pain. "Now," Snape growled, unaffected. Then, without waiting for a response from either of them, he strode briskly from the room, black cloak billowing dramatically behind him as if there had been a gust of wind.

"Screw him," Ron muttered once he was out of earshot.

"We should go," Hermione said quietly. "He probably wants to hear about—you know—" She looked quickly at Harry, squeezing his hand again. "I'm so sorry, Evans, there's so much more to talk about still, but—"

"It's fine," Harry said quickly. His head was positively swimming with information. Some time to sit and digest it all sounded appealing. "Don't keep Snape waiting. I think he's determined to hex Ron's arm off."

Hermione gave a tiny laugh. Ron attempted to smile too, but apparently there was too much truth in that statement, for it looked more like a sour grimace.

"Yes, all right. We'll be back soon." With one last reassuring squeeze of his hand, Hermione stood and went towards the door. Ron followed suit, shooting Malfoy a glare as he went.

Then Draco and Harry were left alone. Malfoy looked worriedly around the room as if he wasn't quite sure how this had happened.

"I'm not going to freak out again," Harry said.

Malfoy looked unconvinced. He stood. "Right. Well, I don't really feel like taking my chances, Evans," he scoffed, and headed towards the door.

Harry felt like the thoughts in his head were angry, buzzing insects. They whizzed around his mind chaotically, bumping into each other and stinging the sides of his skull, made all the more uncomfortable by the strange sensation of Occlumency barriers which were not his own. He scratched uselessly at his scalp.

Draco had just turned the doorknob to exit into the dark hall when Harry spoke again, unable to help himself.

"Everyone thinks that we're dead," he said flatly, as if to recap the entire conversation. "You. Me. Snape. Apart from Ron and Hermione, the whole world thinks that we've died. And now we have to… to stay here."

Draco looked back at him over his shoulder. His expression wasn't exactly malicious, but it wasn't kind, either. Perhaps he was trying to give him that characteristic sneer that Harry was so accustomed to from their school days, but it fell flat. It was hollow now. His gray eyes looked cold, haunted.

"Welcome to the House of Ghosts," Draco drawled, but again, the sarcastic bravado was only half present. Then, without a backwards glance towards Harry, he went into the darkened hall and disappeared, letting the door close behind him.


	4. Thoughts and Fears

Harry simply sat in the kitchen for a few minutes, alone with his thoughts—which were now strangely uncomfortable, given the new Occlumency barriers.

He was out. He was really, really out.

He couldn't believe it.

He… _could_ believe it.

Harry ran his palms along the surface of the wooden table. He reveled in how rough it felt, so hard and solid beneath his fingers. It was the simplest yet most wonderful sensation. Raw, imperfect, solid. _Real_.

Then, quite suddenly, Harry was hit with a stroke of inspiration that was so great it bordered on genius. Grinning, he stood.

A shower sounded like the best idea in all the world.

Without overthinking it, he left the kitchen and ascended the staircase—quietly, of course— and made his way to the bathroom. It was the same one that he, Ron, and the twins had shared so long ago, back when the entire Order was using Grimmauld Place as Headquarters. Except that it didn't seem very long ago at all, to him…

Shoving aside all thoughts that didn't have anything to do with a nice, hot shower, Harry closed the bathroom door and took off his borrowed robe. He gasped when he saw his own full, naked reflection for the first time. For a wild moment, he thought it was someone else in the mirror. He twirled around, stupidly looking behind him for the unknown intruder. Then, upon accepting the fact that he was alone in the bathroom, he reappraised himself with wide eyes. Harry ran a hand down his chest in astonishment. And he'd thought his inexplicable, perfect vision was immaculate. But his body…

There was simply no other word for it.

He was hot.

… _Really_ hot.

Harry had never been anything other than malnourished at the worst of times and just slightly too thin at the best of times. Not even the delicious and copious amounts of food at Hogwarts or the Burrow had ever helped him to put on any real weight, and Quidditch did little to help him gain any muscle, either. Not that it had ever bothered him; being lithe was the ideal build for a Seeker anyway.

He certainly didn't look thin and malnourished now.

 _Bloody hell,_ Harry thought as he poked experimentally at a pectoral muscle that he absolutely did not have before. He flexed his biceps, slowly opening and closing his fists in awe. It was almost unreal, how… _good_ he looked. He had _abs_. Definitive ones. The kind he’d seen on male models in muggle magazines.

Harry let a long, low breath as ran a hand through his hair—suddenly noticing that even his hair was nicer, far softer than he'd ever remembered it being. He tried for a few moments to flatten the unruly parts into something a bit more presentable. The moment he moved his hand away, the reluctant locks sprung right back up. Nope. Still stubbornly, perpetually messy. Shiny, though, he thought wryly.

Harry laughed at himself in the mirror, but the smile died from his lips rather quickly as the following question settled over him:

 _Why_ was his body so perfect?

Harry tried not to linger on what the answer might be. Instead, he turned away from his reflection and from his reeling thoughts and got in the shower. The bathroom with soon filled with inviting, warm steam.

Stepping into the stream of running water felt even better than he'd imagined it would. Harry was content to just stand there, letting it run over his skin which still felt tainted by the lingering, icy chill of wherever it was Snape had saved him from. It chased the awful memory away, warming his cold bones. Harry sighed in contentment. It was almost nice enough to make him forget about the strange sensation of the barriers in his mind…

The moment he thought of them again, Harry once more became hyper-aware of their presence. Strange, sort of itchy constrictions on his mind. The more he mentally lingered on them the more wary he was of their presence, and the worse they felt, and the more he just wanted to rip them off.

 _Best not focus on them, then,_ Harry decided firmly. He tried to concentrate instead on other pressing matters.

A year. He'd missed an entire year of his life.

And what a year it had been, apparently. Snape killed Dumbledore. 'Course, Harry already knew that—but now he knew  that he had done it on Dumbledore's own orders. He'd been cursed, Snape had said… But cursed by what?

Harry started to make a mental list of questions he would have for later. Number one— Why and how had Dumbledore been dying?

Okay, so, Dumbledore was dead, but Snape was… good. Obviously he really was good, Harry knew that he must be, or he wouldn't have saved him, but…

The better question was: _Why?_ Snape hated the lot of them, he always had… Had he finally given Ron and Hermione whatever solid proof that he had given Dumbledore to convince him he was on the Order's side?

Question two, then—Why are you not a Death Eater, Professor Snape? Sir? Not that I am complaining; I just find it very odd, as you hate all of us, so, you know, it would be nice to know why you are, in fact, on our side. Thank you.

Right… Severus Snape, his hero.

_Wonderful._

And Draco Malfoy's hero, too, Harry realized. The Master of the Elder wand… What in the world was that? And why would it make the Dark Lord want to kill him?

Question three—Malfoy, what is the Elder Wand, how are you the Master of it, and why would that put you at the top of the Dark Lord's 'to kill' list?

Harry thought back to the memory of when he'd been in Myrtle's bathroom, watching Draco cry his eyes out to a ghost. He could only imagine what he would do if Draco found out that he, Harry Potter, had seen the whole emotional outburst. Or that it had been him controlling the snake at that Death Eater meeting.

And if _Snape_ found out—

Harry’s blood ran cold, despite the scalding water in the shower. He said a silent prayer that Severus Snape would never, ever discover that he, Harry, had tried very hard to murder both him and Draco Malfoy in the form of an impossibly large, powerful python.

Not that he had known any better! He'd just heard that they'd worked together to kill Albus Dumbledore! Of course he would attack them! What did he know? Besides, that had given them the excuse they needed to 'kill' Draco Malfoy, hadn't it? So, really, he had done them a favor.

Somehow, Harry imagined that this reasoning would do little to quell the rage that Snape would be sure to unleash on him if he found out.

Better just never let them know, Harry thought. Upon making that silent pact with himself, he wondered if Snape's Occlumency barriers also kept Snape himself out of mind (and was terrified at the prospect that they might more easily let him in).

Question four, then—Professor Snape, do your experimental mind walls make it harder for you to read my thoughts, or easier? No specific reason, none at all. Just curious. Nothing to hide here. Just been sleeping for a year… Or most of it… You know…

But wait—Harry physically jumped at another startling realization, nearly slipping in the shower —he'd already screwed up.

He had been the first to tell Snape that he knew Dumbledore had died. Snape hadn't caught it, but —how would he explain how he'd known that? Why hadn't that greasy bastard asked him that question at once?

The answer came just as swiftly as the horrible revelation did, and Harry let out a sigh of relief. Of course, because Snape had passed out, and Harry had been in the kitchen with Ron and Hermione… He probably just assumed that his friends had told him…

Inversely, his friends had most likely assumed that Snape had told him some things when he'd been in the drawing room alone with him…

Nobody knew that _nobody_ had told Harry _anything_ , and that all his real information had, in fact, come from strange, inexplicable out-of-body experiences. Which had been caused by people saying his name, which was why there was a Taboo on it, now—but Harry alone knew that was the real reasoning. And he had seen Draco crying; he had seen Trelawney in her tower, whispering and staring into a crystal ball, seeing nothing…

Which brought him to a set of final, rather monumental questions.

Had Snape known it was him inside the batty old woman? Harry frowned, trying to remember exactly what he'd said. It had been rather fragmented. He lives… World of white… Asleep,

safe and sound, the Dark Lord has him… Harry Potter, human horcrux… Yes, that had pretty much been the gist of it…

Well. There was no reason for Snape to think it _had_ been Harry speaking through her. In fact, considering he'd said that Harry Potter was asleep, he probably did not think it was him. He more than likely just thought it was Trelawney saying something… divine-y.

But Harry knew that _Snape_ knew what he was.

A horcrux.

So, why hadn't Snape tried to kill him? Why was he going to such great lengths to protect him? Weren't Slytherins supposed to be deeply invested in self-preservation?

Furthermore, did Snape know that he, Harry, knew what he was? Did he know that Harry was also personally aware that he was a horcrux of Lord Voldemort?

Questions five, six, seven and eight…

Harry began to feel overwhelmed. He was just going to have to play his cards very close to his chest, pretend he didn't really know much of anything and act like he never saw any of the things he witnessed during his tumultuous out-of-body experiences. He would have to pretend to figure things out slowly over time, asking questions only when it made sense to ask them.

He thought back to when he'd been waiting outside of the kitchen, eavesdropping on Ron and Hermione. Ron had been wondering aloud why they couldn't tell him everything… and Hermione, she'd yelled at him…

What did they know? Did they also know that Harry was a horcrux? Did they think that Harry was unaware, too? Were Ron, Hermione, and Snape all working together now, sharing information and decidedly keeping Harry in the dark? Oh, and there was Draco Malfoy, too—where and how did he fit in to all of this?

Harry had an ominous feeling that no one in this household would ever quite have the full picture, because everybody was keeping secrets from somebody else.

"…Evans? You all right?"

It was Hermione. Harry started at the sound of her voice as she knocked timidly on the door.

"Ah, yeah," Harry answered. _Evans_. That was going to take some getting used to.

"I'll bring you a clean towel, okay?"

Harry had not even thought about that. "Uh, okay, that would be great. Thanks!" he called. How long had he been in the shower? Probably a long time. Most reluctantly, he turned the water off. He may have just stayed in there all day is she hadn't brought him back to reality.

Reality… _right_.

He heard the door open and close a moment later. "I'm setting it right here on the sink. Oh, you'll need a change of clothes, too—I'll go find you some, sorry, Evans—"

And before Harry could say anything, she left again. He waited until the door closed to step out of the shower.

The mirror was completely fogged over, the warm air thick and heavy with moisture. Harry grabbed the towel and dried off cumbersomely, still unaccustomed to his new musculature. It felt… weird, but in a good, kind of powerful way. He wrapped the towel around his waist, tying it so that it would stay secured on his hips.

He waited. And waited.

Had she forgotten? Harry frowned, slightly annoyed. Hopefully not; she'd taken the other robe that he'd been wearing before with her. He eventually decided to brave going out into the hall and up to the old room he used to share with Ron. What were the odds he'd run into Snape between here and there? At least he had a towel. Then again, Snape had already seen—

Harry nearly wretched as he repressed that particularly vivid, rather recent memory. Just as he turned a corner, he collided with a frazzled looking Hermione, who had, naturally, chosen that moment to finally return.

"Oh!" She gasped in surprise as they bumped into each other. "Sorry, I—"

Hermione froze mid-sentence as she stepped away. Her mouth formed into a perfect little 'o' as she quite blatantly stared at Harry's half-exposed body, clearly just as shocked at his appearance as he had been. Harry, embarrassed, froze as well. He cleared his throat. Hermione jumped, and her face instantly turned pink.

"Uh, Hermione…?" he said, reaching for the clothes as he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh my god," she said in a rush, returning her eyes to his face. "Sorry—I, um, h-here you go." She shoved the bundle of clothes into his waiting hands.

"Thanks…" Harry said a bit uneasily. And because the moment wasn't already awkward enough, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs announced the arrival of a third party. Harry's head snapped to the side, his eyes widening at the unwelcome appearance of Ron.

"Are you two—whoa," he said, also freezing when he saw Harry. His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them—Hermione's pink face, Harry's wet hair and immaculately chiseled chest, and the way they were awkwardly standing there.

"Uh…" Harry started, taking a step back towards the bathroom in retreat.

Hermione had begun unintentionally gawking again. "S-sorry, Evans—it's just—I mean—you look like you've just walked out of a Calvin Klein ad!" she gushed, unable to help herself.

Harry laughed uncomfortably, but Ron looked confused. "A _what_?"

"Nothing—it's a stupid—it's a muggle thing," Harry muttered quickly. He gave Hermione a fleeting but pointed look. She coughed, turning away. "I'm going to get dressed now… Thanks for the clothes." He turned and went back into the bathroom, eager to escape.

"Who is Calvin Klein?" he heard Ron asking in a heated voice. Harry tried his best not to laugh out loud.

"No one, nothing—we'll be downstairs in the kitchen, okay, Evans?" Hermione called.

"Okay!" he answered, but already he could hear them walking away, Ron muttering something unintelligible in an annoyed tone. Still grinning, Harry got dressed. He wondered whose clothes Hermione had brought him. They fit all right—in fact, they may have been a bit too big for him, before—but the shirt was slightly too tight over his broadened chest, the pants a tad too short.

 _Maybe I should ask for the large, overbearing robe back,_ Harry thought glumly _. Even if it is Snape's._

Sighing, and trying very hard to ignore the uncomfortable itchiness in his mind, Harry went downstairs to join his friends.

* * *

Hermione and Ron were waiting in the kitchen. Thankfully, it was just the two of them. They were sitting across from each other at the table, steaming mugs in front of them.

Hermione jumped up at once. "Here, Evans. I'll pour you some tea."

"Thanks." Harry nodded, suddenly realizing that he was very thirsty. He sat down next to Ron, who still looked slightly disgruntled—Harry could have sworn he'd seen his eyes dart over Harry's chest and shoulders as if they personally offended him—but a moment later he was smiling.

"Evans… That will take some getting used to," he said brightly, voicing Harry's earlier thoughts.

"Yeah, I know," Harry agreed. "So, uh… what did Snape want?"

Ron's smile faltered at the question. He glanced up at Hermione as though waiting for instructions. She set Harry's tea down in front of him before she returned to her seat. "Well," she started tentatively, "it's… complicated."

She paused. Harry waited.

"First of all, Evans, you have to realize that we… we cannot tell you everything. At least, not right now. Not until we are all certain that you-know-who believes that, without a doubt, you are dead, and you are able to construct your own impenetrable Occlumency barriers. Until then, we can't tell you certain things, we just can't, because if you-know-who used your connection to find out what we've been up to, it would be disastrous. Catastrophically so. I'm not talking about just our lives, either, I'm talking about the entire war; it would make it so that we would never, ever win. Can you understand that?"

Her last words were so tense with worry, her eyes so filled with regret and concern, that Harry almost felt guilty. Of course he understood why he shouldn't know everything—he had a piece of Voldemort's lovely soul in his poor head—but he wasn't entirely sure that Hermione knew that…

The reason he felt guilty was because he could see in her face that she expected him to rant and rave and shout at them like he had over a year ago, in the summer before their fifth year.

Harry took a slow sip from his tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. "Yes, I understand," he said calmly. Hermione visibly relaxed at his words, her tense shoulders slouching.

"Oh, good. It's not that we don't want to tell you, it has nothing to do with—"

"Hermione. I get it," Harry interrupted. "You don't have to apologize for being logical. Just… tell me what you think is safe, and no more. I can wait to hear the details later."

"Well, we can't tell you what Snape wanted, but…" Ron began, but he gave up rather quickly, looking back to Hermione again to explain.

"A lot happened this year, Evans," Hermione said briskly. Harry could tell at once that she had been thinking this particular conversation through in detail. Her words sounded rehearsed. "After you went missing, it was, naturally, the Order's priority to find you. Headquarters was still at Grimmauld Place, but it was only used as the occasional meeting space, from what I understand. We spent the summer at the Burrow—and, oh, by the way, Bill and Fleur are engaged. She was there with us the whole time." Her last words were undeniably frosty.

Harry's eyebrows raised at that. "What? Really?" He gave Ron a shrewd look, remembering all too well the fiasco before the Yule Ball.

"Yeah," Ron said, his ears turning red. "…Yeah."

Hermione paused for a moment, focused on Ron as though she were just waiting for him to say the wrong thing. Ron, perhaps sensing this as well, had no further comment on the matter.

"When do they get married?" Harry asked. Hermione turned her attention back to him.

"Er… Day after tomorrow, actually. August first. They're getting married at the Burrow."

"Oh. Wow,” Harry said, shocked. “That was fast. Um… Are you two going to go?"

"Yes," Ron answered, sounding worn. "Yes, so help me God, we have to go. My mum already wants to kill me, I've been leaving so frequently without her permission... She knows that Hermione and I are working on some secret orders from Dumbledore, but she refuses to accept that we should be doing it alone. Every time I sneak away, I think she's going to just murder me when I get back. She keeps threatening to chain me to my bedpost."

Harry wanted to ask what the 'secret orders' were, but already knew they wouldn't be able to tell him. "So you haven't been staying with them, Hermione?"

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, I would have, but—you see, it's already so crowded there, and—well, I've been busy with this research I need to do, and it would be impossible in the Burrow right now—"

"It's an absolute _madhouse_ , Evans," Ron said with a heavy voice. "Planning a wedding is insanity. Mum's a train wreck, dad's working crazy hours at the Ministry—though I think he does that partially on purpose, to avoid being at home for as long as possible; Ginny keeps trying to kill the bride—she hates phlegm—I mean, Fleur—and Fred and George keep encouraging it, giving her free joke shop supplies—their shop is doing incredibly well, by the way—and Percy…"

He finally lost momentum, his voice trailing off feebly.

"He's… still not around?" Harry asked. Ron shook his head.

"…So, I've been staying in a loft in Diagon Alley," Hermione concluded. "But I've been invited to the wedding, so I'll go, too. I wish you could come with us."

Harry pondered this for a moment. He'd never been to a wedding before, let alone a wizarding one. He could only imagine that it would be fun, but of course he couldn't go…

"Everyone really misses you, mate," Ron said somberly. "It's going to be really hard, going to the wedding and pretending like we don't know you're okay… But we can't tell anyone, Snape's made us swear up and down a thousand times. I'm surprised he hasn't made us make an Unbreakable Vow. It's like he thinks you-know-who is going to make an appearance and personally use Legilimency on my entire family…"

He tried to smile as if this was a joke, but there was too much truth in it for Harry to find it funny in the slightest. He looked down at his tea, feeling miserable and guilty. Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," Harry said suddenly, looking up at her. "Didn't you say that everyone thinks you're missing? Hermione, how can you be renting a loft if you're 'missing'?"

"Oh, I've created a false persona," she said smartly. "'Abigail West'. I use a glamour in public—"

"A what?"

"A glamour, it's a complex spell to disguise your appearance. Much easier and safer than Polyjuice Potion, I just have to cast it whenever I'm out. Anyway, that's what I've been doing while I've been, ah, researching the past couple of weeks. I might be a target, otherwise. Not to mention being a known muggle-born has serious consequences, even now…"

"Does it? Why? What's happening to muggle-borns?"

Hermione's face turned stony. "Well… nothing, yet. But the war is not going well, Evans. There's a very high likelihood that the Death Eaters will infiltrate the Ministry soon, if they haven't already. It's difficult to say. They could have half of the officials under the Imperius curse at this very moment, just waiting for the right time to strike, to completely turn the tides…" She paused, looking more anxious than Harry had ever seen her. "Anyway, once the wedding is over, Ron and I will probably come here. We have a mission that is of vital importance, and the only ones who know about it are us and Snape. And, soon, you, of course." She rushed to add the last part, as if worried Harry might change his mind and start raving after all.

"But… What about your family…?"

Hermione's face fell, but her gaze was unwavering. "My parents… I modified their memories. I gave them new names. They went to Australia. They'll be safe there. They… don't currently know they have a daughter."

Just like the Malfoys. Harry’s chest tightened in response. Just how many families would this war tear apart?

"Oh, it's okay," she went on quickly. "I can restore their memories when this is all over, they'll have had no idea." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Harry sighed. Before he could say anything else, there was a loud, ominous thud from somewhere up above them. They all looked up.

"What was that?" he asked. "It sounded like someone just dropped a bowling ball…"

"Oh, that'll be Kreacher," Hermione's answered, voice filled with pity.

Ron, however, was clearly annoyed. "Yeah," he muttered as he took in Harry's surprised expression. "He's around. We couldn't exactly get rid of him, he knows too much. So we keep him locked upstairs in the attic."

Harry clenched his fists. _Kreacher_. That stupid house-elf had lied to him; it was partially his fault that his Godfather was gone—

"He's yours now, you know," Ron went on, interrupting Harry’s heated train of thought. "Since you inherited the property, he's officially your elf. He won't take orders from any of us, as he technically doesn't have to. Hence us locking him upstairs." He didn't seem too fussed about it, but Hermione looked concerned.

"It's really unfortunate, but we can't have him getting out..." She gave Harry a somewhat hopeful glance. Ron shook his head as if in warning, like he was willing her not to voice her next request.

"Maybe, Evans… Maybe, since you're his new master, you could—"

"He can rot up there for all I care," Harry snapped. Hermione opened her mouth to respond, obviously about to plead with him, but Ron interrupted.

"I have an idea," he said. "Let's talk about something else besides nasty, old, house elves. Anything else. Anything at all. Like, oh, maybe—"

"How did Dumbledore get cursed?"

Ron instantly became slack-jawed at that interjection. Once again, it was Hermione who spoke up.

"We… That's one of the things we can't tell you, Evans. Not yet."

Harry sighed, a bit exasperated. "Can you… I dunno, sort of give me the gist of what it is he wanted you to do?" he asked pleadingly. "No details or anything, but just the general idea? So I'm not totally confused?"

Hermione glanced at Ron, who just shrugged unhelpfully. Her voice was slow and measured when she looked back to Harry. "Just… know that we have been working on Dumbledore's orders since before he died, and that it is very, very important that no one else knows about it. We're basically searching for some important items that we need to find. It's vital that we locate them in order to defeat you-know-who."

Harry frowned. "Important items… like weapons?" he asked. When Hermione glowered at him, he put up his hands defensively. "All right, all right, sorry! Don't tell me. You shouldn't tell me."

His mind felt uncomfortably itchy again. Harry scowled, feeling gloomy and terrible.

"You… really shouldn't tell me."

They fell into an awkward silence, one which was not broken until Harry was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. He yawned loudly.

"Are you tired?" Hermione asked in a motherly sort of tone. "You can rest in the guest room if you'd like, it's clean."

"No," Harry said at once. He _was_ tired, but the very last thing he wanted to do was sleep. Hermione looked a bit taken aback. He put a hand up guiltily; he hadn't meant to snap at her.

"No, I don't want—no thanks," he said in a gentler voice. Hermione's expression softened.

"Let's do something else," Ron said unexpectedly. He stood and crossed the room, motioning for them to follow.

"I've got an idea. It'll be fun."

* * *

An hour and a half later, and Harry had not won a single game of wizarding chess. Ron claimed his king for the third time.

"Checkmate," he said, grinning widely as Harry's white king angrily threw its crown at the feet of a black knight. Ron's pieces began dancing victoriously, causing Harry's queen to burst into silent tears. "Ah, I really missed beating you, Evans." Ron sighed blissfully as he watched the spectacle.

Harry laughed, getting up and switching places so that Hermione could take his spot. "Here, have another go, Hermione," he said as he plopped back down on the sofa.

"Yes, come to the slaughter." Ron grinned playfully as he reset the board. The black pieces hurriedly got back into place, looking excited. The white pieces, however, dragged their feet as they retook their positions. Harry couldn't blame them. They had now lost seven times in a row.

"Oh, all right. But then we should make dinner. Unless you're hungry now?"

"I'm always hungry now," said Ron.

"I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Evans."

"What, you wouldn't make me something to eat, too?"

"I'm not hungry," Harry muttered.

Hermione nodded as she ushered an unhappy pawn out onto the board. "Maybe you will be in a bit," she said.

"Yeah, watching Hermione get crushed should work up an appetite. You there, pawn, move up two spaces." A black pawn directly across from Hermione's boldly strode forward, waving mockingly at the opposing white piece. Hermione's pawn ostentatiously ignored it.

Harry leaned back on the couch as he watched, suppressing another yawn. He was really beginning to feel exhausted, now, but he still did not want to sleep at all…

"So, what does Malfoy usually do around here?" he asked. Ron didn't look up when he answered, his gaze fixated on the rook Hermione had just moved.

"Usually just keeps out of the way," he said as he moved another pawn. "He's been staying in Regulus's old room. I think he just hangs out in there. At least, that's what he does when he knows we're around."

Hermione sighed, looking conflicted. It was clear she wasn't sure if she felt bad for Malfoy or not. She moved another pawn.

Harry failed to stifle the next yawn that hit him. He stretched before leaning forward, determined not to fall asleep.

"What about Snape, where is he? What's he up to? He said he can't leave, either…"

"I think he's asleep, actually," Hermione replied. She scowled as one of Ron's pieces clobbered her poor, white pawn. "He said not to disturb him; that he would be in the master suite… He definitely looked exhausted."

"Mmm," Harry murmured noncommittedly. That hardly surprised him. Snape had passed out while he was crying on his chest, after all…

He watched passively as Ron went on to claim more and more of Hermione's doomed pieces. It seemed that his freckled friend never bored of winning so effortlessly, and neither did his faithful chess set.

Harry grinned, simply glad to be doing something so normal… The pawns were pretty funny, actually; the little figures reminded him a bit of the plastic toy soldiers he used to play with as a kid. Back when he was small and had been forced to stay in that dismal cupboard, those tiny figurines had been the closest things to friends that he'd ever had… Harry remembered so clearly the way that he would set them up, ready to battle each other… He could see them now, even…

Before he knew it he was back there, holed up in his small cupboard. The toy soldiers were on the shelf, ready for his attention. Harry grabbed a few at random and began placing them in a battle formation. One was missing an arm, but that was okay—he at least had a gun… But, Harry decided, he would probably need back up… He placed a few more figurines behind him…

The war was about to begin when the dangling light above him flickered and went out, enveloping him in darkness.

Annoyed, Harry glared at the dead bulb. He got to his feet and found that he was unable to fully stand. He really had gotten a lot taller. Crouching uncomfortably, he took a step towards the door.

That's when he noticed them.

The walls, all four walls of the closeted space… They were shimmering slightly, sort of… going in and out of focus… Odd, really odd… Harry reached forward and lightly touched the surface of the door—

Immediately he retracted. The Occlumency barriers. In his dreams—for he was fully aware that he was dreaming, now, he must have unintentionally dozed off—they appeared, quite literally, as walls in his mind. And the moment he had touched the one before him the uncomfortable, agitating itchiness had increased a thousand-fold. Harry cringed, backing away slowly and trying very hard to resist the urge to tear them down at once. The horrible sensation receded.

Feeling very trapped indeed, Harry sat back down on the tiny cot in his cupboard in the dark.

 _Well, this is just great,_ he thought dryly. Right back in his old solitary confinement. Harry wondered vaguely if the Occlumency barriers were more or less necessary while he was asleep.

And then he thought he heard something…

A creaking sound. And then another. Like footsteps; slow, methodical footsteps…

Someone was outside, headed towards him.

Adrenaline rushed in his veins, but Harry forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. A dream. This was only a dream.

They were getting closer…

 _But there is no one really there, this is just a dream, it isn’t real, it’s only a dream,_ Harry repeated over and over to himself. _It couldn't be… him, it couldn't—_

Right outside the door, the footsteps stopped. Harry hardly dared to breathe. He pulled his knees to his chest, silent in the darkness, listening waiting—

_What was that?_

Harry stared at the door, half in terror and half in… something…else. There was a strange sound coming from beyond the barriers. Familiar, sort of, like a ringing… No, a hissing… and not entirely unpleasant, either…

Harry continued to stare at the door from where he heard it issuing, almost in wonder. It was getting louder. He could feel it in his very soul, and… it was quite lovely, really; captivating, and… he wanted… he _wanted_ …

Harry jumped in shock. The horrible, itchy sensation of the barriers snapped him back into a lucid state of mind at once. Flustered, he looked back—when— _how_ …? He… he had gotten up and walked to the door; had put his hand against it again—was about to just _walk out there_ , and he hadn't even realized it!  It was like he had been in some kind of trance. That hissing sound from beyond, it had _beckoned_ him towards it like a sick, serpentine, siren song—

Horrified, Harry stepped away from the door, shoving his fist in his mouth as he did so that he wouldn't scream. Because he knew, now, without a doubt, what—who—was out there, just waiting, reaching, calling for him— _luring_ him with that sound—how he was doing it, Harry couldn’t even fathom—

 _But he doesn't know_ I'm _here, not for certain,_ Harry thought wildly, reminding himself. _I can hear him, but as long as I stay behind these walls, he can't hear me—_

But the hissing wasn't stopping. Harry put his hands over his ears, trying desperately to block it out, but he could not. That was when he heard it. In the midst of that enthralling, hypnotic sound, words that sent shivers up and down his spine.

_"…Harry Potter…"_

Cold, soft, and smooth. Lord Voldemort’s voice was like silk sliding against his skin.

_"…I will have you…"_


	5. Lonely Together

"Evans…? Evans!"

Harry awoke to the rather forceful physical ministrations of Hermione. She had both of her hands on Harry's shoulders, effectively shaking him out of the terrifying nightmare. His eyes flew open, and Hermione's worried, pale face was just inches from his own.

"Huh—I—what?" Harry spluttered, looking about the room—which was _not_ a cupboard under the stairs, which was _not_ currently being stalked by a frightening mass-murderer, metaphorically or otherwise, at least, he didn't think.

Hermione released her hold on his shoulders, but her worried expression remained the same. "You fell asleep and… It looked like you were having a bit of a panic attack. So I woke you up."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, slowly exhaling. His heart felt like it was trying very hard to beat its way straight through his ribcage. The hypnotic hissing sound was still stuck in his head, echoing like a musical note that refused to fade.

"I… Thanks," he muttered, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. When he opened his eyes to look at Hermione again, it was to see that her distressed demeanor had not changed at all.

"What were you having a bad dream?” asked Ron. “What about?"

Hermione turned to fix him with such a reprimanding glare that it would have put Mrs. Weasley to shame.

"What?" he balked, but after a few seconds under Hermione's glower he literally, physically withered. "Oh—er—I mean—nevermind—so, how about dinner?"

Somehow, Hermione managed to look even more venomous. Ron stood, looking panicked.

"Which _I_ will make. Right now. I will go and d-do that." He hurriedly left the room, but even from a distance Harry could see his ears turning red. If he weren't still so distraught over his more than mildly upsetting nightmare, Harry was sure he would have found the whole interaction funny.

"Honestly… Tactless…" Hermione seethed. But when she turned back to look at Harry, her features became concerned once more. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Harry wet his lips nervously. He only knew two things right then—he was most certainly _not_ all right, and he in no way, shape, or form wanted to talk about what he had just dreamt.

"Yeah," he said, but it could not have been more unconvincing if he'd tried to sound like he was lying. Hermione smiled tentatively all the same. It was a pitying look.

Harry hated it.

"He's such an idiot," Hermione muttered as she glanced towards the door, but Harry couldn't help but notice that there was a certain… _fondness_ to the words.

He grinned. "Are you a basilisk?" Harry asked casually.

"I… What?"

Hermione looked infinitely more concerned now, perhaps because she was instead worried about Harry's mental welfare. Which Harry was also worried about, now that he thought on it.

"Because that look you gave Ron just now… I think you nearly killed him. You definitely petrified him, at least for a moment."

Hermione was speechless for a moment, looking a bit baffled, before breaking out into a genuine grin. She laughed in relief.

"Perhaps he should invest in a hand mirror,” Harry went on. “He'll have to get used to carrying it with him so he can use it every time he rounds a corner, but I'm sure he would do it if it meant avoiding that look full in the face again."

"Oh, ha, ha—"

"He might also want to acquire some phoenix tears to carry on his person at all times in case you ever bite him—"

"Oh, stop—"

"Probably wouldn't do him much good, though, because I imagine if you bit him, you'd probably just do the proper thing and eat him, too—"

She shoved him playfully on the shoulder this time, her blush deepening. Harry was enjoying himself maybe a bit too much. "Not that I blame you! I mean, a girl's got to eat! Might as well devour yourself a nice Weasley boy—take a page out of Fleur's book, eh—"

Hermione's eye twitched at the mention of the beautiful French woman. "What?" Harry said, effectively derailed from his onslaught. "Is she really that awful to be around or something?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Her eyes narrowed distastefully. "Or something," she affirmed. Bitterly.

"Is that why Ginny keeps trying to do her in?" Harry imagined for a moment the youngest Weasley sneakily dropping dungbombs on an unsuspecting Fleur Delacour. The thought made him grin. "Or is it just because she's part Veela?"

"I just don't really like her is all," Hermione said, clearly trying to sound diplomatic. "She's incredibly arrogant, thinks she is so much better than the rest of us, and it… it gets old."

Harry was pretty sure the words 'and she turns every single male in her presence into a blubbering, pathetic mess, most pointedly and frequently Ronald' were in her mind but would never be spoken aloud. He shrugged.

"I thought she was all right during the Triwizard tournament," he said nonchalantly. Hermione made no further comment on Fleur Delacour.

"So… are you two…" Harry's gaze flickered back and forth between the door where Ron had just exited and to Hermione's still slightly flushed face.

"Um." She twirled a strand of bushy hair around her finger in a very girly, un-Hermione-ish way. Even though Harry didn't actually voice the question, the implication was obvious. "…Er… The short answer is no," she finally settled for. But she didn't meet Harry's eyes when she said it.

"Fair enough," Harry said, deciding in that moment to drop it.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Hermione and Ron. On the one hand, he always knew that there was some kind of tension between the two of them, and he wanted nothing but for his friends to be happy… but on the other hand, he couldn't help but think that the two would not be great for each other in a relationship. They bickered more than anything, what with their clashing personalities, and Harry would hate for them to date, piss each other off, and break up—effectively also breaking up the happy trio.

But, Harry mused, he had missed an entire year of… well, life. Maybe things were drastically different now, what the hell did he know? And… _trio?_ They'd just spent so long without him. Did they even feel like such a friendly threesome existed anymore?

…Probably not.

Harry suddenly felt very, very alone.

Hermione must have noticed the abrupt change in his demeanor, because that horrible, pitying expression was back on her face. "Are... are you hungry? Ron did say he was making something…"

Harry honestly thought about it. The idea of ingesting solid food sounded monumentally difficult. "I don't think I am, really," he admitted.

"Well, you'll have to eat eventually… Though I'm sure it will be strange, you haven't technically eaten in a whole year!"

Harry couldn't tell if she was more anxious or fascinated by this notion. He was suddenly hit with the understanding that Hermione, studious and thirsty for knowledge as she was, probably had a hard time not firing thousands of questions at him about his magically induced coma. For academic purposes.

"Technically," Harry agreed. He flexed his arm experimentally, still unaccustomed to his newly toned muscles… Muscles which were sure to atrophy rather quickly, should he have a hard time regaining an appetite.

His traitorous mind brought up images from the nightmare—dark cupboards and creaking footsteps and enthralling hissing sounds—

Harry's stomach contorted uncomfortably, making him feel rather queasy. No, he did not think he would have much of an appetite ever again.

Ron burst back into the room then, looking a bit apprehensive—apparently still uncertain if Hermione was going to yell at him or not—but as he took in their more relaxed dispositions, he grinned.

"Who wants pot roast?" he said cheerfully.

Harry barely suppressed a groan.

* * *

As it transpired, Ron was not a very good cook—at least, not according to Hermione. Harry couldn't really be a fair judge, as he only managed to take one bite before realizing that eating solid food was going to take some working up to. He settled for tea with milk instead, but even that, he found, he needed to drink slowly.

"You should have made soup or something," Hermione chastised, even though Harry had voiced many times over that he really didn't want anything. "Or bone broth, that's always a good thing to eat when you're sick! Not that you're sick, Evans—as a matter of fact, you look healthier than I've ever seen you! But anyway, bone broth would have been better."

"Well, I don't even know what that is," Ron quickly interjected, "and the kitchen isn't exactly fully stocked, so—"

"What are you talking about? I just brought in a ton of groceries the other day—"

" _You_ can cook next time, then—"

" _You_ offered. I won't make the mistake of _letting_ you, next time—"

Harry just let the sounds of their bickering wash over him, slowly and methodically taking small sips of his tea. At first he found the familiarity of it all amusing, but after a while it began to get on his nerves. Just like old times…

"Did you tell your mum that you were going to be gone for so long, Ron?" he interrupted. Ron stopped mid-retort to look at him. "You and Hermione have been here all day—if there's a wedding to get ready for at the Burrow, won't she be…"

"Oh, yeah," Ron half groaned, half muttered. "She's going to be royally pissed, absolutely. I've just been trying not to think about it." He grinned like he thought this was funny and not at all a big deal, but Harry could see the underlying, genuine panic in his eyes.

"You should go back," Harry said. "Both of you. You don't need to just stay here all day. It's getting late anyway, they're probably already getting worried…"

Ron looked incredibly torn.

"…He is right, you know," Hermione agreed, albeit forlornly. "If you don't go back soon, your parents are sure to start panicking…"

She turned to look back at Harry reassuringly. "I could stay here, though," she added, as she gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Harry didn't miss the way Ron's eye twitched involuntarily at the action.

"Ah… that's okay, Hermione," he mumbled, and she almost looked hurt by his words. He quickly went on. "I mean, I think I would like some alone time to… You know, process everything. If that's all right. Besides…" He glanced at Ron, smirking slightly. "You can't let him face the wrath of Molly Weasley alone. She might murder him on sight if it's just him—if you're with him, she'll at least have to act somewhat civil and spare his life."

Ron's eyes widened at the truth of that statement. He looked at Hermione pleadingly.

"That's a… a really good point," he said profoundly.

Hermione frowned, her lips pursed. "Oh, don't be such a coward," she muttered, but she stared at Harry seriously. "If you want some space, then… sure, that's fine.”

Harry nodded. Ron exhaled in relief.

"Go on, then," Harry said, for Hermione had started to gather up their plates and tidy up. "I can do that, really—"

"Oh, no, you didn't even eat anything! Besides, it will be much quicker if I do it."

And before Harry could argue further, she brandished her wand smartly over the table and across the room, where dishes began washing themselves quite efficiently. Harry stared, slack-jawed.

Right. Hermione and Ron were of age; the trace was no longer on them. They were both already seventeen… which also answered the question of how Ron had managed to make pot roast so quickly, Harry realized. He wondered vaguely if it would have mattered either way, performing underage magic in an establishment protected by the Fidelius charm…

And then he remembered that there was really no point in him thinking about any of that anyway, because he no longer had a wand at all.

"You're better at that than my mum is. You're like a house elf," Ron said appreciatively as he watched the dishes stack themselves into neat piles in the cupboard.

Harry flinched at Ron's words; 'tactless' didn't even begin to cover it. And then, as if to add to the moment, there was another loud, heavy thud from up above, reminding them all forcefully of the imprisoned elf in the attic. They all glanced upwards. One of the glasses that Hermione was suspending in midair fell and shattered, covering the floor in shards.

She looked very much on the verge of shouting—Ron did that withering thing again— but, to the surprise and relief of both of them, seemed to think better of it. Instead of becoming angry, Hermione hurriedly ushered the rest of the dishes away and pocketed her wand.

"Clean that up. I need to speak with Professor Snape before we go," she said, and then she strode from the room.

"…Smooth," Harry said quietly once she was gone. Ron groaned. He muttered a quick _'Reparo'_ before picking up the no longer broken glass.

"I know, I know. I'm an idiot." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Did… did you mean it? Do you really want some space? Because if you would rather Hermione stay here so you're not alone with—"

"It's fine. Yes, I meant it," Harry said firmly. "Get out of here. Go see your family, show them you're still alive."

He'd meant it to be a joke. Ron did try and smile, but his face paled significantly.

A few tense moments later, and Hermione rejoined them. If anything, her frosty exterior was worse. She barely glanced at Ron before continuing to walk to the front door. "Well, come along then."

Ron followed like a scared—but undeniably obedient—dog.

Yet when she reached the doorway, Hermione turned and gave Harry a giant, unexpected hug. "Oh, Evans," she said before stepping away and giving him a big kiss on the cheek. "We'll be back tomorrow, of course. Even if we can only get away for a little bit. I'll make sure to bring you some more clothes and such…"

"Are you sure?" Harry said skeptically. "The day before the wedding, shouldn't you stick around the Burrow so you can help out…?"

Hermione and Ron both fixed him with quizzical expressions. "Don't be silly, of course we'll be back. It's your birthday!"

"Oh. Right," Harry murmured, dumbfounded. Tomorrow he would be of age, too…

Hermione gave him another quick hug. After she pulled away, Ron clapped him on the shoulder in a brotherly way. "Malfoy shouldn't be a bother, he generally just keeps to himself, but… Well, don't let Snape get you down."

Harry smirked. "Yeah. I'll try not to. Don't let your mum chain you to your bedpost."

Ron gave an identical smirk. "I'll try not to."

Hermione's frostiness seemed to melt away at the friendly exchange between the two. She smiled before holding out a hand expectantly to Ron.

"Right, then—shall we?"

And so Harry watched as his two best friends stepped out onto the doorstep. It was just then that he was struck with a sudden concern—how exactly were they going to be leaving? Did they have a secret portkey, or—

But his question was answered at once, as Hermione and Ron gripped each other tightly, and with a loud, resonating crack, vanished on the spot.

Ah. They could apparate, now… of course they could…

Somehow, this odd bit of information made Harry feel even more lost and alone. He slowly sauntered over to the couch in the living room, rubbing his forehead and trying not to think about the itchy barriers in his mind as he wondered about what else he had missed.

* * *

It wasn't long before his depressing mental turmoil was interrupted.

Either Snape had entered the room more quietly and eerily than a ghost, or Harry really hadn't been paying attention—because one moment it was just an empty doorway, and the next Snape was inexplicably hovering there, looking more ominous and bat-like than ever.

Harry didn't let the surprise show on his face, though.

He had been laying on his back on the couch when Snape appeared, staring vacantly at the ceiling as he contemplated life and all its complicating factors. "Morning," he said idly as his eyes met Snape's, despite the fact that it was eleven at night. "Sir," he added quickly.

Snape glowered, but surprised Harry as he stalked across the room to sit across from him. Harry raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"It has been brought to my attention that you may be experiencing… vivid nightmares."

Harry sat up. _Hermione_. That's what she'd had to talk to Snape about before she left? She'd… she'd ratted him out!

"No," he denied at once. His mind itched.

"Don't lie," Snape demanded. "I expected as much, actually. Tell me, When you were… asleep, before… As in, before you were brought here… Was the Dark Lord ever able to communicate with you?"

Harry's entire mouth went dry.

"C-communicate with me?" he stuttered, and, damn it all, he could feel his face growing warm— he cleared his throat, trying not to sound so flustered and stupid—

"Yes. This is important. If he can reach you in your dreams then that is where you will be most vulnerable, and he will try and find you that way. So answer the question."

Harry couldn't. He just… couldn't.

"I-I don't know. I don't remember anything from… from when I was asleep, before." He was looking down, refusing, perhaps a bit too obviously, to make eye contact.

A number of unasked questions hung in the air. Both parties remained silent for a long time.

"I see," Snape finally said.

The next words came tumbling out of Harry's mouth before he could stop himself, like drunken soldiers on a suicide mission. "Can you hear everything I'm thinking?" he spluttered, looking up.

Harry might as well have asked, 'Do you think I'm pretty, Professor Snape?', so condescending and repulsive was the expression on the older wizard's face.

"…Sir?"

Snape's scowl deepened.

"They are barriers. Walls. Just because I am currently upholding them does not mean that they allow me access to what I know is the vast, empty, unfortunate mental landscape of your mind. To put that into words that you can actually digest, the answer is no. No, your mind is completely closed off from any and all outside sources. Including myself."

Harry visibly relaxed. Snape didn't need to ask why; the dangerous look on his face asked it for him.

"Just wondering," Harry said quickly, sounding altogether too nervous.

Snape seemed to contemplate something for a moment. Then, in a measured voice, he said, "I do hope you recognize the importance of telling me the truth, boy. But know that just because I may not be able to use Legilimency to delve into your mind—at least, not for the time being—I am excellent at sniffing out deception. And right now, you _reek_."

"But I just showered," Harry said, unable to stop himself. Snape's hand twitched towards his pocket where he undoubtedly kept his wand.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. It was odd how he could be so nervous around this man yet still not refrain from saying stupid, reckless things. "I meant, 'I just showered, sir.'"

"Do not make me hex you," Snape seethed, and this time he did pull his wand out. Harry frowned, annoyed at the hostility.

"Why did you do it, then?" he almost shouted, his eyes fixed on Snape's unblinkingly. "Why did you bother to save me? You _hate_ me. You've _always_ hated me. Why throw away your precious life as the Dark Lord's favorite Death Eater for me?"

Snape stood. At first, his expression was so enraged at Harry's forwardness, so mutinous, that, if Harry had not already been up close and personal with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself—in his dreams, anyway—it would have been rather daunting.

But not two seconds later, and it was gone. Snape's murderous scowl vanished, quickly deteriorating into his usual, pompous sneer.

"I simply saw the error of my ways. I have always been on the Order's side. You know this is true, so get it through your giant, over-blown head and accept it. Never ask me again."

The last words were spoken with such a finality that Harry just nodded. But it left him burning with curiosity. "How did you find me?" he asked.

Snape actually shrugged. "I have my ways," he drawled in a manner that made it clear he thought he was superior to nearly all people in every conceivable way.

_Oh, like Divination teachers finding you and giving you vague, cryptic messages in the dead of night, sir?_

And the question Harry really wanted to ask, but could not, for it would give everything away—

_Why didn't you kill me?_

_Why aren't you killing me now?_

_Why? Why? Why?_

"Okay," Harry muttered tersely.

Snape simply glared at him suspiciously for a moment, as if waiting for another obnoxious question or angry retort. When none came, he returned to a seated position. Then, quite suddenly, he turned his head to the side, and Harry flinched at the unexpected shout of,

"Draco! Get down here!"

_…Why?_

The sound of footsteps descending the stairs announced the inevitable arrival of Draco Malfoy. He stepped tentatively into the room, looking skeptically between Harry and Snape.

"Yes?" he finally said, wary. Snape motioned towards a spot on the couch next to Harry, across from him.

"Sit."

Draco looked like there were few things he would rather do less than sit next to the boy who had aggressively de-pantsed him earlier. But apparently old habits ran deep, and he only hesitated for a moment to obey his former professor.

He did, however, sit as far away as physically possible from Harry as he could on the sofa.

"Good," Snape said curtly once they were all seated. Harry folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

The older wizard looked at Draco, resting his hands in his lap in an almost business-like manner (with his wand still woven between his fingers as a silent threat). "Draco, you and…" he briefly paused, looking like he was about to be sick for a moment before continuing, "…Evans, here, are going to be sharing a room. You are being set to the task of keeping an eye on him."

"…What?" he and Harry shouted simultaneously, after a moment of silent, comprehending horror. Snape ignored Harry completely, continuing to speak to Draco as though he wasn't present.

"Yes. You are going to be keeping an eye on him, especially while he's sleeping."

Draco's face paled. "You—you want me to _watch him while he sleeps?_ "

Harry shared his horrified sentiments precisely.

"Not necessarily. Just sleeping in the same room should suffice; I know you are a terribly light sleeper,” Snape said, and Harry did pause in his horror-stricken state for a moment to wonder how Snape knew this. “If he shows any signs of distress while he sleeps, simply wake him up."

Draco looked like he would rather fight a dragon. As a matter of fact, Harry would prefer that, too.

"You can't be serious," Harry said, for Draco now seemed at a loss for words completely.

Snape finally turned his attention back to Harry. "I am very serious. Until we are certain that both of us are, without a doubt, thought to be dead, we must take every precaution necessary to make sure you don't give us away. If he can reach you in your dreams, he will undoubtedly try." He ran a pale finger along his jawline, looking deeply contemplative as his dark eyes bored down into Harry's. It didn't matter that he knew he couldn't use Legilimency at the moment, Harry immediately looked away.

"That is what happened, isn't it?" Snape said softly, and, for some reason, Harry very much wished that Draco wasn't in the room. This felt incredibly personal, and maybe a bit… taboo?

"He tried to reach you in your dreams. Outside of the barriers, but you could feel him searching for you, couldn't you?"

The silence was suffocating. Harry felt like Snape had just punched him in the stomach with those words… but he didn't dare lie.

"Yes. Er. Well. I could… _hear_ him," he said quietly, and it felt like sharing the most private, intimate information in the world. Draco shifted uncomfortably.

"What?"

Harry glanced up to Snape, who looked deeply concerned. "You could _hear_ him?" Harry nodded, and Snape's brows became substantially more furrowed.

"That should be… impossible," he murmured. There was a long moment where no one said anything, but Harry could practically hear the older man's mind racing.

"In what manner was he speaking to you?" Snape asked slowly. "…Was it… parseltongue?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

He hadn't thought about it before, but he supposed that made sense. Because it wasn't Harry he was beckoning to, really, was it? It was the _horcrux_ , that snake-like entity that was so intricately intertwined with his very being… Voldemort's soul, his soul…

Not that Harry was about to say any of this out loud. This felt more awkward and uncomfortable than talking to Professor Snape about… about sex, even, or _feelings_. Harry felt his face growing warm against his will. He looked away again.

"I-I'm not sure," he stuttered, though he was sure. "I could never really differentiate between the two… It just—it sounds like English to me…"

Harry knew that Snape knew that wasn't a lie, but Harry was certain that he was still very suspicious. Snape took a long, deep breath before saying, "Do not ruin what remains of my existence by informing me that _you spoke back_."

"No," Harry replied quickly. "No, of course not."

Snape's concerned expression softened to its usual glower. He nodded. "Good."

Harry, however, did not feel relieved in the slightest. "But—he can't—he doesn't _know_ , right? So long as I remain within the barriers, he can't sense that I'm alive… Right?"

Snape paused for a moment before responding. Then, in a level voice he said, "No. He cannot. But I am obviously correct in assuming that he is going to continue to reach for you anyway. He is unstable, irrational, and, most dangerously of all, desperate. When the Dark Lord wants something, he will go to unheard of lengths to obtain it. These tendencies become exponentially worse when he is told that what he desires is impossible."

Snape pulled up the sleeve on his left arm. The Dark Mark was still a deep, inky black against his skin. Malfoy recoiled once more at the sight.

"However. While he may not be able to sense you, it doesn't mean that he will have ruled out the possibility that you are somehow being hidden from him yet. I fear that level of acceptance will not come for quite a while. In the meantime, you must prove to be more intelligent than you have in the past. Whatever he says to you in your dreams, do not respond. You are, quite literally, playing dead. He is the most cunning wizard in all of existence; he will say or do anything to lure you out of hiding if he thinks that you may still be alive. Don't give him any reason to believe that is a possibility. Just stay within the Occlumency barriers. Don't disturb them, don't go through them, and, for god's sake, _don't say his name._ "

Harry nodded mutely. What could he say? The very last thing he wanted to admit was that not only had he heard Voldemort talking, but he had done this weird, hypnotic hissing thing, and it was like a bizarre siren song, and why was his face burning up, and why did they need to be having this conversation with _Malfoy_ in the room?

"Why… Why is he so desperate to get him, Professor?"

Draco's timid voice broke the silence. Snape and Harry both turned to face him. "I mean… if he had him before, why didn't he just kill him? Why keep him locked away at all? If he wanted to kill him so badly… Why didn't he just do it?"

Well, that answered Harry's question about how much Draco Malfoy knew: Not much. He decided not to act offended by how casually Malfoy had inquired about his death. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said in what he thought was an admirably good imitation of a confused, defeated young wizard.

It seemed to appease Snape at any rate. "The Dark Lord is more than slightly deranged. I stopped questioning many of his more radical decisions a long time ago."

And that seemed to appease Malfoy. Harry played along; he even shuddered like it was an involuntary action. Or maybe that had been genuine. Harry wasn’t quite sure anymore.

Snape stood. "You two will stay in the guest room. There are two beds in there already."

That statement snapped Draco back to reality at once. He looked incredulous again. "I don't want to babysit him!" he shouted.

"Oh, I apologize—did you have a plethora of pre-existing appointments? A full, chaotic schedule with many looming deadlines? Are you so busy that you cannot aid in our survival?" Draco's jaw dropped at being snapped at so venomously by his favorite professor. Harry couldn't help but be amused—and a bit confused, truth be told. Was their cozy student-teacher relationship destroyed now? "No? That's what I thought," Snape finished in his characteristic sneer.

He was quiet for a moment, fixing them each in turn with a scowl.

"I am not asking you to be friends, I am not even asking you to be kind to each other—I would probably have better odds with asking the Dark Lord for a full pardon and a pay raise. But I _am_ asking—no, _demanding_ —that you be civil towards one another. This is only a temporary arrangement, so you will only have to deal with each other for a—God willing—relatively short amount of time. Don't make it any more painful than it must be. When this is over, we can all pretend like this never happened. I'll even personally modify your memories for you, if you'd like. Now. I will be in the master suite. If I am disturbed for anything less than an absolute emergency, know that I am not above using Unforgivable Curses."

He continued to look back and forth between the two of them, his thin lips curling up at the corners. Evidently, he was unable to not find at least a bit of joy in their distress. "Do you both understand?"

"Yes, sir," they responded in a dull, lackluster chorus.

Snape looked as close to happy as Snape ever did. "Excellent," he said, pocketing his wand and standing. He gave Harry one last, vindictive smirk.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Happy bonding."

He then departed, leaving two stunned and miserable teenagers in his wake.

* * *

Harry glared.

Draco glared.

…Silence.

Long, uninterrupted, and uncomfortable. With the exception of the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, it was eerily quiet and dark.

But that ticking. Harry thought the sound was mocking him. Tick, tick, tick—this is your life, wasting away. Here, in this room, in this house, with Draco Malfoy.

Tick, tick, tick.

…This cold war had been going on for at least twenty minutes.

The guest bedroom had two twin sized beds in it, just as Snape had said. They were on opposite sides of the room, which was not exactly large. On one sat Harry Potter, currently known simply as Evans, and on the other, Draco Malfoy. It was nearly midnight, but neither looked like they were about to go to sleep anytime soon. Instead, they were openly glowering at one another.

No words. Just unspoken, mutual hatred.

As Harry did not yet have pajamas, he remained in the clothes that Hermione had brought him earlier. They weren't particularly comfortable. Draco, however, must have brought his clothing with him, because he was dressed in very cushy looking sweatpants and a t-shirt. Harry envied him, but there was nothing in the world that would make him ask his old nemesis if he could borrow some pajamas.

"…Why'd you try and rip my pants off?"

After such a long stretch of silence, it was Draco who finally spoke first. It was a very hostile question.

Yet Harry's stony expression did not waver. He supposed that he should have come up with a good explanation for that action by now, but he hadn't. The silence filled the room again, only now Draco was looking at him with an air of inimical, yet genuine, curiosity. When Harry simply didn't answer, he asked, leeringly,

"Are you _gay_ Evans?"

Harry was sure the shock at that question registered on his face. Had Draco Malfoy really just questioned him about his sexuality? And, even more bizarre—was he really that incapable of instantly firing back a malicious retort?

Draco's already sneering expression became gleefully malicious at Harry's reaction. "You are, aren't you? Is that—"

"Even if I were gay, Malfoy, the very last person on Earth I would be interested in would be you," Harry spat, finally regaining his composure.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Then why did you attack me?"

"Why'd you let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and try and murder Dumbledore?"

Draco's brows raised at that. Apparently, Harry's ungraceful tactic of such an obvious change in conversation was going to work. "I was ordered to," he seethed. "And I wasn't about to disobey an order from the Dark Lord himself. You…you have no idea how terrifying he is when he demands something of you."

In fact, Harry had a very good idea about how terrifying the Dark Lord could be while demanding various… _things_ , but he said nothing.

"There's no excuse for committing murder," Harry responded coldly.

"Well, I didn't,” said Draco. “And Dumbledore was already dying anyway." There was almost no remorse in his voice at all.

Silence again. Harry's mind itched uncomfortably.

"Great," he muttered, plopping onto his back so that he could stare up at the ceiling. "Just great. Living with Snape and rooming with Draco Malfoy…"

"I'm not exactly happy about it either, Evans," Draco said from the other side of the room. Harry watched him curl on his side, facing the wall away from Harry. "Babysitting you isn't what I signed up for."

Harry hesitated for a moment before asking, "How did Snape know you were a super light sleeper…?" He turned on his side to face Draco, curious to see the look on his face.

Draco, however, only made a sort of grunting noise, and resolutely remained with his back to him. Harry waited. Just as he was sure that Draco wasn't going to answer, he started speaking.

"…I used to complain about Crabbe and Goyle all the time. We shared a dorm, and they both snored. I asked Professor Snape to teach me how to do a silencing charm in our first year so that I could finally get some sleep."

It was a short story, and Harry supposed he should have found it kind of funny, but he didn't. Not at all. Draco's voice was so forlorn, so depressed… because he was talking about his friends, and it was obvious by his broken tone that he truly missed them.

Harry had never thought that someone like Draco Malfoy would be capable of genuine friendship. "Oh," he said unhelpfully. Surprisingly, he felt a bit guilty that he couldn't think of anything better to say.

Draco did turn to face him then. His steely eyes shone like two pieces of silver in the near darkness. "So if you show any—what did he say?— _signs of distress_ , I'll hear it, and I'll wake you up." He said it in a tone that made Harry certain that, should Malfoy have to awaken him from a disturbing nightmare, he would not do so in a pleasant manner.

Harry snorted. "Lucky me," he muttered. Then, a bit more nervously, "Do you have your wand?"

Draco’s face fell. He couldn't even manage to have an edge of haughtiness when he spoke next, saying, "No. I… It was buried with my fake body."

"What?" Harry said, sitting up. "But—why?"

Draco didn't move. "Authenticity," he seethed, though Harry could tell his rage was, for once, not directed at him. "All noble wizarding families are buried with their wands… Mine was in St. Mungo's when I supposedly died, and my mother didn't want to risk making a fake and swapping it out to get it for me. It's kind of funny, in a twisted way. If there was one thing that would convince the Dark Lord that I was really dead, it was my wand being buried. It was like my actual body—a complete, transfigured fake—was inconsequential to that. I was as meaningful as my source of magic, and that was it."

Harry nodded, recognizing the truth in that.

"Well… at least you could potentially get your wand back someday," Harry said bitterly. He fell on to his back again, sighing.

Draco didn't ask, but it was obvious he wanted to.

Harry answered anyway. "Yeah. _He_ has it," he said darkly. "Probably… fed it to his snake or something."

Malfoy made a low, dismal humming sound in agreement.

Tick, tick, tick…

"Could be worse," Malfoy offered up morosely. "We could be dead. You know, for real."

Harry laughed at that—mostly because he wasn't sure if that _would_ be worse for him. It certainly wouldn't be worse for the wizarding world in general.

"Yeah," he agreed, regardless. "Yeah. We're alive. Miserably, miserably alive."

The clock on the wall chimed midnight.

"Happy birthday," Malfoy mumbled with no emotion in his voice. He rolled over, his back to Harry once more.

Harry smiled humorlessly. “Thanks.”

He stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing uncomfortably with the burden of the foreign barriers. He was just about to say something about how he didn't think he would sleep at all, not after his previous nightmare, that easy slumber would be impossible… But then his eyelids suddenly felt very, very heavy. He fought it for a moment, was about to sit up again, even, but it then he heard it.

Pulling him into dreams, that entrancing, hissing sound…


	6. Outstanding

Harry tried to ignore it.

_"…Ssssssssssssssss…"_

He was back in the cupboard. What cruel and unusual punishment was this, he thought sourly, to be here again? Was he doomed to forever repeat this nightmare? To return every night to Number Four, Privet Drive—literally stuck in the closet?

_"…Harry Potter…"_

Yes, definitely parseltongue. The more Harry focused on it, the more obvious that was. He could hear it—an eliding, exotic hiss…

_"…Harry Potter…"_

Though he tried with all his might to not focus on it, he found that impossible. It was velvety smooth, and the sound of his name… It was so…sensual and literally taboo and—

Stop it.

_"…Come to me…"_

_I will not,_ Harry thought stubbornly.

The monotonous hissing continued. Hypnotic and alluring, with enticing words occasionally slipping in and out of focus within the single, lovely note… and _those words,_ they were such silky sounds, sliding up and down his spine like a snake, cool and smooth, making him shiver—

Footsteps again. Slow, eerily prowling outside of the door, outside of the barriers… They paused for a second. Harry wet his lips, trying to calm his racing heart. _Don't panic,_ he thought, _he doesn't know you're here… Don't panic… Don't—_

Harry abruptly and involuntarily let out a noise that was something between a gasp, a moan, and a scream; a sort of strangled sound as he felt it, the walls being touched. Not by him; he, Harry, remained on his tiny cot, a safe distance away—but _he_ had touched them from the outside, and it was like the mental equivalent of someone trailing a single finger along the bottom of a bare foot or over a naked, exposed stomach—it was torturous, a horrible itch that he could not, _would_ not scratch…

Feather light fingertips continued to dance across the barriers, grazing the walls almost curiously, and Harry had to bite his knuckles to stop from screaming out. He tasted blood in his mouth.

_Oh god, stop it, stop it, stop it—_

And then, thankfully, blessedly, they retracted. Harry sighed. The Dark Lord couldn't possibly know what that had done to him, for surely if he had he wouldn't have stopped, and eventually Harry would have done something disastrous—

_"…I know you live…"_

_No you don't._

_"…Come to me…"_

_I will not._

It was growing louder and stronger and it was intoxicating—

_"…Come to me…"_

_…I will…not do that…_

_"…Harry Potter…"_

_…Mmmmmm… His name, spoken like that…it was…so…_

_"…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…"_

_…So…_

_"…Harry Potter…"_

_...So…mmmmmm…_

_"….Ssssssssssprecioussoulsssssssssssss…"_

_…Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm_

"Mph—what the hell! Ack—stop—stop! HEY!"

Harry threw his arms up, desperately trying to fend of the vicious attack—another blow hit him on the top of the head, and then another—

"Pft—enough—enough already!"

Draco Malfoy towered over him, pillow in hand. He was just about to thrust it down at Harry’s face again when Harry sat up and pushed him away.

"I'm up, I'm up!"

Draco stepped back, but he still held the pillow threateningly over his head, prepared to strike again. Even in the semi-dark room, the distraught expression on Malfoy’s face was painfully clear. "What the hell was that noise you were making?" he asked.

Harry was very glad it was dark. His could feel his face turning red. "What…what are you talking about?" he muttered, dreading the answer.

Draco lowered the pillow slowly to his side but did not release it from his grasp. "You were making some weird, humming sound, or something. Practically moaning."

Harry's stomach dropped. "I-I was?" he stuttered, feigning shock.

"Yeah," Draco answered, looking and sounding somehow both vindictive and disturbed. "It was fucking weird."

Harry felt like his very blood was on fire he was blushing so fiercely. He hid his burning face in his hands.

"…What was he saying?"

Malfoy's voice suddenly became much quieter and more respectful. Harry suspected that he was unable to so much as reference the Dark Lord without being deferential.

"Nothing," Harry mumbled.

"Liar."

"I'm not—it doesn't—STOP THAT!"

For Draco had just ransacked him with the pillow again, and it was surprisingly painful, considering it was, in fact, a pillow. Harry latched onto it, and soon they were both yanking at it, a vicious tug of war—

"Give it back—"

"No—"

"Let go—"

" _You_ let go—"

Harry did. Malfoy, who had been standing and pulling very hard, went flying backwards, falling ungracefully onto his bed as he was thrown off balance. Harry smirked.

"You arse," Draco spat, fuming. "Fine, don't tell me. See if I wake you up next time."

"Sure you will," Harry spat back. "Unless you want you-know-who figuring out I'm alive. That _you're_ alive."

Draco glared at him for a long moment, looking mutinously conflicted. Then, finally, he laid back down, rolling over to one side so that his back was to Harry once more. He muttered something that sounded very much like, 'no one fucking tells me anything' before pulling his blankets up over his head, huffing.

Harry fell back onto his bed as well, suppressing a groan. His thoughts whirled, indescribably itchy and irritating. He scratched his head uselessly, willing it to stop being so bothersome—to no avail.

Scowling, he glanced up at the clock. It was nearly six in the morning. Well, he had managed to sleep for a straight six hours. How strange, he thought, that dream had only seemed to last a moment… Or had it? Everything felt foreign and different under the influence of that alluring, velvety sound, that hypnotic hiss—

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it!_ Harry berated himself as he dragged his hands down the sides of his face. How was that possible? That beckoning, that creepy, spine-chilling summoning—what _was_ that? Some kind of lure to the horcrux, he supposed, some kind of magical call… Voldemort's soul, reaching out to its other half… Bidding it to come home…

_"…Come to me…"_

Harry shivered at the thought.

He figured that Snape was right, though. That beckoning was a continuous, repetitive hissing, and Harry was sure that Voldemort wasn't actually certain that Harry could hear him. It was a desperate summon, a refusal to accept that he had really, truly died. But, Harry thought, if the Dark Lord really thought he was alive, that he was listening to every single word he said, he would probably be saying… other things.

No. Lord Voldemort was… _in denial._

Harry almost cracked a smile. What were the stages of grief again? Denial, anger, bargaining… depression? And then acceptance? Ha, Harry thought dryly—Voldemort was definitely in denial and he was definitely angry… Somehow, though, he couldn't imagine the Dark Lord pretending to bargain with anybody, ever. And depression? Also unlikely.

The stages of grief for a psychotic, mass-murdering megalomaniac, then: denial and anger, simultaneously, for a prolonged period of time, and hopefully, someday, acceptance…

But the way it had felt when he had run his hands across the Occlumency walls… Voldemort surely had no idea what he had done, in that moment—that he had just touched upon the barriers that concealed his quarry. Harry's back arched involuntarily at the mere thought of it. _That_ —if he ever figured _that_ out… and what about Snape; had he felt it, too? Could he tell when the barriers were being probed at, or was it only he, Harry, who experienced that unquenchable, itchy sensation?

Harry sat up, scratching his head again. "I think I need to talk to Snape," he muttered.

He'd said it more to himself than anything, but Malfoy responded anyway. "Is it an absolute emergency?" he drawled. He remained motionless on his bed, still facing the wall.

Harry pondered that. "…Maybe?" he said weakly. Draco scoffed.

"Have fun waking him up, then. Hope you managed to retain your dodging skills."

"He was… he was just joking about using Unforgivables, right…?"

Draco snorted. "You don't know Snape like I do."

Harry was about to argue against that; surely he, Harry, had been on the receiving end of Snape's wrath far more often than Malfoy… but, he realized suddenly, Draco had experienced the Severus Snape that was masquerading as a Death Eater, working alongside Lord Voldemort himself, doing who knew what for the past year…

Maybe Malfoy had a point.

Harry fell back onto the bed again. Feeling defeated, and knowing that there was no way he was going to get another wink of sleep at all, Harry stared morosely up at the ceiling, trying to quiet his uncomfortable thoughts.

* * *

Several hours later, and Snape still had not awoken.

Harry had lain in bed in a sort of stupor, thinking—or, more accurately, trying _not_ to think —when, after a long time, the strangest thing happened. The oddest sensation—and perhaps the reason it was so odd was because it felt so foreign to him that at first, when it struck him, he thought there was something horribly, horribly wrong with his body.

To say he had suddenly become hungry would be an understatement of epic proportions. Harry was _ravenous_. And so, he found himself rummaging messily through the kitchen cupboards, fully prepared to eat anything and everything in sight.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Draco shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. Unlike Harry, Malfoy had managed to fall back asleep after their little… skirmish (Harry refused to think 'pillow fight'). But he must have been woken up now by the sounds of Harry's noisy, somewhat hectic rustling. Malfoy took in the sight of him, kneeling on top of the counter so that he could see the top shelf of the pantry, searching for something that was edible which didn't first need to be cooked.

"Looking for food," Harry replied shortly. He had to agree with Ron's complaints from the previous day—there was a decent amount of groceries here, true; but it was mostly various things in cans and jars, pasta, and some vegetables—and Harry was desperately hungry enough that the bag of baby carrots he'd found was about to be the first to go, though he was hoping for something a bit more substantial.

"Isn't there any bread or something…?" he muttered as he continued to rummage through the pantry.

"There was. I ate the last of it yesterday."

Harry's eye twitched." Of course you did," he said scathingly. His stomach shared his sentiments—at that precise moment, it made a long groaning sound.

"It was the best bread I've ever had in my life," Draco leered, clearly amused. "Amazing, so soft and delici- _ow_!"

Harry had promptly thrown a can of soup at him. It hit the Draco in the shoulder, hard, and fell to the ground with a resounding _bang_.

"You should work on your dodging skills," Harry spat as he scrambled down from the counter— for Draco had bent over to retrieve the can, surely about to return fire.

"That _hurt_ , you moron—"

But Harry was ready for it when the can came soaring at him a moment later. He caught it with a deftness that surprised even him, considering that Draco had thrown it much faster and harder than he had. Harry smirked as he held it casually in one hand. "What, you don't like—" he paused to read the label— "…clam chowder? Actually, that does sound kind of awful for breakfast—but I'd eat just about anything at the moment—"

Harry set the can back on the shelf and, feeling resigned, snatched up the carrots. Maybe after he devoured them, he would garner up the patience to properly cook something. Harry sat down at the table and started eating them with gusto, warily watching Draco out of the corner of his eye in case he tried to throw something else at him.

Malfoy chose not to. Instead he made a huffy sort of noise and began filling up a kettle with water, presumably so he could make himself tea. Harry thought it was a bit surreal, witnessing somebody like Draco Malfoy performing a mundane a task as boiling water. He doubted very much that Malfoy had ever had to make his own tea before in his life… and as Harry watched, he could tell that he was right. There was something awkward about how Draco moved, the way he struggled to get the stove top to light, that made it clear this was somewhat new and strange to him.

Draco leaned against the counter while he waited for the water, a mug with a tea bag in it next to him. Of course he wouldn't offer to make him one, too, Harry thought. Not that he much cared. Harry was too busy consuming more carrots than he had in his entire life at that moment—which was really saying something, as carrots had once been a main part of his diet when he was forced to endure the same food regimen as Dudley when he'd been trying to lose weight.

Neither of them spoke for a long time, but Harry could feel Draco's narrowed eyes fixed on him, examining him. "What happened to your…"

Harry looked up when he paused, and Draco's suspicious gaze snapped to his in an instant—but Harry was certain that, not a moment before, he'd been looking at his _body_.

"…Glasses?" Malfoy finally settled for, looking apprehensive.

Harry shrugged. "Just wearing contacts," he said.

"Wearing… you're wearing what?" Draco asked dumbly.

"Er—laser eye surgery."

"Laze… what?"

Harry almost groaned. Any muggle references he made be completely wasted on the pompous, pure-blooded wizard before him.

"I just—I dunno, magic."

Draco blinked. "Well, right, of course, but—"

"I don't know!" Harry seethed, suddenly very annoyed. Draco jumped at the outburst. "I don't know, I was just asleep, and to my surprise I wake up to find I have inexplicable, impossible, amazing…" He paused for a moment to let the insinuation stand that Harry _had_ noticed Draco's scrutinizing stare. Then, smirking, he said, "… _vision_."

The kettle starting whistling at that exact moment, saving Draco from needing to formulate a smart comeback. Harry returned his attention to the unsatisfying carrots, feeling oddly victorious.

It was then that they heard rustling and footsteps from the front room. Harry got to his feet, but before he could walk out into the hall, two figures hurriedly joined them in the kitchen. One was the familiar face of Ron, looking a bit tousled and windswept but otherwise cheery, and the other was someone who Harry did not recognize at all—a young, blonde woman with ivory skin and piercing gray eyes. And though Harry was certain he did not know her, she smiled warmly when she looked up at Harry.

"Who—?" he started, but just as he had begun to voice the thought, he'd figured it out. Her grin widened as she watched the realization dawn on his face. "Hermione?" he gasped. She nodded.

"Abigail West, pleased to make your acquaintance," Hermione said demurely, extending her hand in a very proper, ladylike way. "We were out and about this morning, so I cast my glamour."

"Whoa," Harry said appreciatively as she spun around.

"What do you think? Is it convincing? Am I completely unrecognizable?"

Harry looked at her face, carefully examining her, now—and as he scrutinized her appearance more closely, he could see the ghost of Hermione's facial structure underneath the marginally paler skin. But the eyes were drastically different, cold and gray, really the exact opposite of Hermione's warm brown ones. And the hair! Sleek and smooth as it had been when she'd done it up for the Yule Ball, only now it was platinum blonde, nearly white. Like…

"You look like… a Malfoy," Harry declared in a tone of voice that would be used to say, 'You look like a slug.'

Hermione smiled more brightly. "Funny you should say that. Abigail West is, technically, related to the Malfoy family. Somewhat distantly of course. I couldn't go around pretending to be a Pure Blood or a Half Blood even, it'd be too obvious, but Abigail West does have familial ties to the Malfoys, and the Rowles, and, even more distantly, the Weasley family… The paperwork all checks out, if anyone bothers to look in to it. The forged documentation, that is." Her eyes glittered mischievously.

Harry laughed. "Of course it does," he said, nothing short of impressed. Hermione truly missed nothing.

"Yes, we're all just a big, happy family," Draco said in a most sinister, condescending drawl.

"You don't look half bad as a girl, Malfoy," Harry mused, smirking at him as he gestured towards Hermione.

Hermione didn't miss a beat, speaking before Malfoy could snap something first. "I even based the proportions of my nose on Draco's specifically. It's nearly exactly the same, only mine is smaller and more feminine, of course."

"You—what?" Draco stopped mid-retort, obviously caught off guard by this bit of information. "You did not."

"I did. I also matched your hair color precisely."

Ron twirled a stand of her long, platinum locks around one of his fingers. "You have such lovely blonde hair, Malfoy."

Draco looked like he might be sick.

Then, without another word, he left, taking his tea with him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared triumphant grins.

"I prefer my natural appearance," Hermione said idly after he'd gone. She brandished her wand over her body and seconds later she was a bushy-haired, brown-eyed girl again.

Harry's stomach made another loud groaning sound. Hermione and Ron both looked down at his midsection in surprise, their eyebrows raised.

"Er—sorry," he mumbled. "I—"

"You have an appetite again, then?" Hermione interrupted. Strangely, she looked excited when Harry nodded. "Oh, good—then I'm glad we got this!"

She reached into her inner robe pocket and pulled out a small, beaded bag. She opened it and reached down—impossibly far down, Harry noted; the bag was quite small, but Hermione had her whole arm down into it, past her elbow—and then there was a resounding, thundering sound, like a great pile of something had just toppled over—

"Damn—the books, I keep doing that—where is it, I swore I set it just on top—ah, here!"

And then she pulled out a medium-sized, white box. It was rather strange to watch as Hermione extracted a parcel that was seemingly much larger than the bag which had been containing it.

"Enlarging enchantment," Ron explained. "A really good one, too. She keeps all sorts of crazy things in there."

"I like to be prepared," Hermione said. Then she pulled the lid off the white box, revealing a lovely, round, white frosted birthday cake. "Happy birthday, Evans!"

Harry stared for a moment, jaw hanging open stupidly. Never had there been a more beautiful sight in all his life than this, right here, right now. Harry had half a mind to get down on one knee and ask Hermione to marry him. He probably would have, too, if he wasn't fairly certain that Ron would not find it funny.

"Hermione, I love you," he spluttered out instead. Which wasn't much better, Harry thought, but Hermione and Ron both laughed. The three sat down at the kitchen table, and Harry immediately began eating birthday cake at an unprecedented rate.

"Uh… Do you want some?" he offered after what must have been a least five minutes of solid cake-consumption. Hermione was beaming at him in a fond, motherly way, and Ron had been watching with an expression that was somewhere between shocked and impressed.

"No, that's all you, mate," he said jubilantly. "You might want to slow down, though, you don't want to throw up."

Hermione's face instantly became concerned. "Oh—that's a good point. Evans, you should be careful—"

Harry was torn between wanting to smack Ron in the face (for every instinct he had was screaming _'More food! More food!'_ ) and wanting to thank him, because, really, he didn't like the idea of getting sick.

Begrudgingly, Harry nodded. "Yeah, good point," he admitted. He set his fork down and pushed what was left of the beautiful cake away, albeit a bit forlornly. He sighed, then checked the clock on the wall. "I'm surprised Snape isn't awake, yet," he commented. It was nearly noon.

"Well, upholding Occlumency barriers like that, consistently… It's a huge drain on your energy." Hermione said knowingly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "How do you know? Have you done it, too?"

She blushed slightly.

"Yeah," Ron answered instead. "Snape practiced with her the most… Because Hermione, as always, was excellent at it, as she is everything, and he seemed keen to get her to the point where she could construct barriers too. Though he never once admitted that she was an incredibly talented witch."

"Really?" Harry said. He was unsure if he should feel sorry that she'd had to endure more of Snape's mental abuse or impressed that she was able to so adeptly learn Occlumency from Snape —when he, Harry, had so spectacularly failed.

Hermione's blush deepened.

"Yes, I can make Occlumency walls in other people's minds, too... Though I'm nowhere near as good at it as Professor Snape is, of course. And yes, it is very taxing. I'm sure few other witches or wizards would even be able to do it, what he's doing for you, Evans. He really is an extraordinarily talented wizard."

Ron and Harry both made retching sounds. Hermione shook her bushy hair, sighing.

"We got you something else," she said, decisively changing the topic. She reached into her beaded bag again, and, much more quickly this time, pulled out another, much smaller box. She handed it to Harry.

"Happy seventeenth!"

Harry tentatively pulled the lid off. Inside was a watch—the most beautiful, intricate watch that Harry had ever seen. It was a gleaming, polished silver, with a large face that displayed not only numbers, but planets and stars and other symbols which he did not recognize. He pulled it out of the box with something akin to reverence, dumbstruck.

"It's tradition, in wizarding societies, to give people a watch when they come of age," Ron said.

Harry continued to examine it wordlessly. It looked like real silver, and the stars… They were —they couldn't be _diamonds_ —

"Do you like it?" Hermione asked nervously.

"It's gorgeous," Harry said at once, and Hermione looked relieved. "But—are those real diamonds? This must have cost a fortune…"

"They are, but don't even worry about it," Ron said casually, to Harry's great surprise.

"But—how—you didn't have to—"

"Don't worry about it," Ron repeated, a bit more sternly this time—but he was grinning.

"I can't take—I don't—"

"Really, Evans, it was nothing! Really," Hermione interrupted. "We're just glad you like it. I thought you might prefer the gold one, but Ron said the silver was more masculine, so—"

"This is perfect. Thank you. Both of you," Harry said. "You really didn't have to."

"Well, you weren't around for your last birthday, nor Christmas, so consider this a make-up for all presents missed," Ron said cheerfully.

Harry just nodded. He looked down at the beautiful—though complicated, and a bit confusing—watch before putting it on. It did look rather smart, he had to admit… A traditional gift given to wizards when they come of age…

Harry felt his heart swell with emotions… ones that he wasn't really sure he wanted to confront.

"Um…" Ron checked his own watch then, looking nervous. He gave Hermione a slightly panicked glance.

"You should get back," Harry immediately said. "Before your mum murders her other six children in a blind rampage because of your absence."

"Nah, she'd never kill Ginny," said Ron. "But…"

"Get out of here," Harry said, standing. "You shouldn't have even stayed this long."

They both looked guilty. "This wedding cannot be over soon enough," Ron muttered darkly as he stood. Harry and Hermione followed suit.

"Yes, once the ceremony is over, we'll have time to focus on our _real_ mission." She sounded both relieved and wary, if such a thing was possible.

"So go get it over with, then." Harry tried to not sound as miserable as he felt. What he wouldn't give to be going with them…

Harry accompanied them to the front door, where they would be able to safely apparate. They had just hugged, promising to return as soon as they were able, when Hermione jumped as though she'd just been shocked.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "Oh, I almost forgot—I have something else for you, Evans, I've been saving it—hold on—"

She rummaged through her deceptive beaded bag for a few moments, biting her lower lip in concentration as she searched—but then her eyes lit up in triumph, and she extracted an official looking letter.

"…You can't be serious," Ron said in a deadpan voice of disbelief.

"What?" Hermione balked. " _I_ would want to know—"

"You are the only person on Earth who would actually care about—"

"Well it's not up to you or I to care, is it? Here, this is for you." Hermione thrust the envelope into Harry's hands before giving him another swift kiss on the cheek. "We've got to go, but we'll be back as soon as we possibly can, okay?"

Harry just nodded, giving them one last wave as they stepped out onto the doorstep and disappeared.

He stared down at the letter curiously. It was addressed in green ink to Harry Potter, written in that recognizable, thin script…

Harry's heart turned to ice in his chest. The last time he had seen that handwriting he had been alone in his room at number 4, Privet Drive… And he had thought it was a trap; had assumed, like an idiot, that it was Lord Voldemort who had written it, not Dumbledore…

With numb fingers, Harry opened the mysterious letter, wondering what it could possibly be. He stared at the document within, his eyes wide in astonishment as he registered what it was he was looking at.

 

_Harry James Potter_

_Ordinary Wizarding Level Results_

_Astronomy: A_

_Care of Magical Creatures: E_

_Charms: E_

_Defense Against the Dark Arts: O_

_Divination: P_

_Herbology: E_

_History of Magic: D_

_Potions: E_

_Transfiguration: E_

 

His O.W.L. results.

Harry had completely forgotten that they had even happened. His eyes scanned the paper for a long while, never leaving the parchment as he slowly and methodically made his way to the couch and fell into it, feeling as though he'd been stupefied.

He'd gotten an 'E' in Potions, he was mildly surprised to see… And an Outstanding… He'd gotten an 'O' in Defense…

A strange smile found its way onto Harry's lips. An 'O'. His smile widened, and then he let out a small chuckle, and soon, soon he was just laughing—full blown, nearly maniacal laughter, and once he’d started he couldn't seem to stop. He was clutching at his sides, so uncontrollable it was, and the letter wound up on the floor, face down and several feet away.

Yes, he had received an 'Outstanding' in _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ …

And a fat lot of good it had done him.


	7. The Monster in the Attic

_No, he could not be gone, he could not be gone; he was alive, somehow, alive, and he would find him, yes, he would find him because he was alive and he could not be gone and he was not gone and he was not gone and he was not gone and this, this feeling, it was unbearable, and how could it be that fate, which had always favored him—oh, how it now twisted its expired, lost fidelity into one of vile, warped aversion—because once, it had been all he had desired; his ceaseless fixation was to see the boy die, to be his death, and now, now that same end was crushing him, consuming him, a horrendously cruel joke, and from it was born a perverse, manic smile, forming on his lips of its own accord, and if_ this _was grief,_ this _was pain,_ this _was loss, why, why, why, why was he laughing?_

* * *

"Why are you laughing?"

Draco hovered warily in the doorway. He had his arms folded across his chest with a book in one hand, observing Harry in a suspicious manner as Harry lay on the couch, still clutching at his sides in laughter. Malfoy looked oddly out of focus, and it took Harry a moment to realize that it was because he had, apparently, been laughing so hard that he had begun to cry. Malfoy tried to look cynical, but his apprehension was poorly veiled.

Maybe he was losing his mind a bit, Harry thought.

"Oh… just a joke," he finally managed to say, forcing himself to calm down. "A really, really funny joke…"

Draco scanned the room. "But… you're in here by yourself," he said blankly.

Harry sat up, wiping the tears away from his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed, nodding. "Yeah, you wouldn't get the punchline."

Draco stared with narrowed eyes, motionless in the entryway.

"What, do you want something?" Harry asked, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

Draco didn't blink. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, remember?" he sneered. "I thought your stupid little friends were still here because I heard laughter, but obviously I was wrong. Are you losing your mind completely?"

So it was the general consensus, then. Harry shrugged. "Quite possibly."

Draco scoffed. "Great," he mumbled. He walked into the room, sitting opposite of Harry in an armchair. He opened his book and started reading, muttering to himself when he spoke. "Just great."

"Where'd you get the book?"

Draco spared him a brief glance. "The library.”

"There's a library here?"

Draco sighed, snapping the book shut and looking irritated. "Didn't you used to live here?"

"Well, yeah, technically," Harry said. "But we were cleaning the place up the whole time, fighting doxies and trying to make the main rooms habitable… I don't remember there being in a library, though, and I'm pretty sure that Hermione would have noticed that…"

"Well, there is," Draco replied shortly. Then, to Harry's great annoyance, he resumed reading.

"What, you're not going to show me where it is?"

Draco didn't look up. "Nope."

Harry scowled.

"Fine." He got to his feet, snatching his O.W.L. results up off the floor as he did and shoving the folded parchment into his pocket before turning to leave. "Bye."

"What—hey, where are you going?" Harry heard the book snapping shut again behind him.

"I'm going to go look for the library, of course. Feel free to stay and here and _not_ keep an eye on me, though. I won't tell Snape."

"I'm not—no, I'm not stupid enough to—get back here!"

"Make me."

Harry could hear footsteps behind him as he wandered through the drawing room, down the darkened hall where the curtained portrait of Sirius's mother hung, shielded from sight. He was standing right in front of it when Draco grabbed his forearm. "I'm not going to follow you around all day being an idiot!"

Harry shushed him, pointing at the currently not screeching portrait that was within such a dangerously close proximity. Draco looked un-phased. "What? That old thing?" he said distractedly. "She only wakes up now if you physically pull the curtains open."

Harry's eyes widened as he examined the new, heavy drapes that covered the painting. "Oh. Well, that's good. Why didn't Snape do that years ago?" He stared at the dark fabric, remembering all too well the horrid, ear-splitting screams of _'Mudbloods! Filth! Traitors in my home!'_

"Snape didn't do it," Draco explained in a slightly sour tone. "It was _Granger_. I guess she really didn't appreciate how Mrs. Black talked—or screamed, rather—about her…" He shrugged nonchalantly. "She liked me enough, though," he added, smirking.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Congratulations. An insane, painted portrait of a dead woman approves of your presence in her house." He paused for a second. "Oh, wait. _My_ house," he corrected, sneering.

He then turned to continue down the hall, but Draco tightened his grip on his forearm. "I'm not—"

Harry ripped his arm out of his grasp with a surprising strength. They both looked a bit startled by how easily he'd done it—but their mirrored expressions of shock went in opposite directions nearly at once. Harry’s became victorious while Draco's face fell into poorly concealed worry.

"Show me, then," Harry offered once more. "If you don't want to anger the big, scary Snape. Or waste your precious day following me around aimlessly."

Draco's eyes, which had been lingering on Harry's much more muscular forearm, snapped up at once, glaring. "Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not—"

Whatever it was that Draco Malfoy was not going to do, Harry never found out. At that moment they heard the front door being flung open from down the hall, followed by the sound of stumbling footsteps. The two shared a startled glance before they sprinted back towards the front room.

"Ron?" Harry said, coming to halt. For Ron had returned, having only been gone for a relatively short amount of time… and he did not look good. His robes were disheveled, his hair was mussed, and his skin deathly pale.

He locked eyes with Harry, horror written all over his ashen face. "It was awful," he wheezed as he slammed the door shut behind him. "I barely made it out in time."

"What happened?" Harry and Draco asked it at the same time, and Draco went even further:

"Was there an attack?"

Ron took an awkward step forward, his body language rather like that of a particularly slow, clumsy zombie. "Worse," he said gravely. "There was… an _explosion_."

Harry felt the dread wash over him in a colossal, frigid wave.

"What?" Draco gasped, and, for the first time, Harry thought he looked and sounded like he might actually care about something other than himself. "An explosion? Was it Dark Magic, was it the —"

"No," Ron said, cutting him off. "It was… it was an explosion…of estrogen."

Harry and Draco exchanged dumbfounded looks. Ron made his way to the couch and sat down, looking like he was still suffering the aftermath of severe shock.

"What are you going on about, Ron?" Harry asked, sitting next to him. But the feeling of dreadful fear had ebbed away. If something truly awful had happened, Ron would have said so by now… And, now that he thought of it, Harry could recall one other time that his friend had this very same demeanor. After he'd asked Fleur to go with him to the Yule Ball…

Draco didn't join them on the couch, but he did remain in the room, standing and waiting. To Harry's surprise, Ron didn't object to his presence or tell him to get lost—in fact, he seemed glad to have an audience with whom to share this burden.

"I was just there, in the kitchen," he began in a dark, ominous tone, as if this were the beginning to a ghost story, "and everything was going well enough—we were all just chatting, having tea, you know… and, well, Fleur's family came in this morning, and she has a sister—you remember Gabrielle?"

Harry nodded. Ron swallowed before continuing.

"Well, she and Fleur were talking while my mum was showing their parents to their room, getting them settled… and you know me, I like how they talk…" Draco snorted, and Harry cracked a smile, too—"So, Gabrielle—or Gabby, as she likes to be called—well, she's just all sorts of smitten with you, Evans."

Harry laughed. "Oh, yeah?" he said, jokingly.

"Oh, _yeah_ ," Ron answered, very seriously. "Yeah, and she knows today is your birthday, too… She and Fleur started talking about it, and Gabby was just going on and on about how sad she was that she wasn't going to see 'her _'ero''_ again… and Fleur was trying to comfort her, saying how much she missed you, too— _'Oui, mon chérie, I understand, I meess 'im az well—"_

Harry thought Ron's impersonation of a French woman could use some improvement, but he decided against commenting on that. "And then," he continued, his voice becoming even lower and darker,

" _Ginny_ happened."

"What?" For the second time, both Harry and Draco spoke simultaneously.

"Yeah… She stands up, tossing her hair back and kicking her chair out from behind her, and I don't know if you've ever seen Ginny mad before, but it's almost as bad as my mum. She stares right at them, glaring like a demon—and she's hated phlegm—er, Fleur—for a while now, mind you, so this has all been a long time coming—and starts shouting at them, telling them they have no right talking about you or how much they miss you, that they didn't even know you, and she actually told Fleur to, and I quote, 'shut her god damned mouth.'"

Malfoy looked mildly impressed, perhaps despite himself. Harry had a feeling the story was about to get much worse.

"But it was Gabby who shouted back, and she told Ginny she was a just jealous because _'ze boy 'oo lived waz my 'ero, not yours',_ and Ginny, oh, Ginny looked so mad I don't think she could even form words at that point. So Fleur jumped in— _'Oui, 'e waz like a brother to me, and a savior to my Gabrielle. We miss 'im az much az you.'_ , and then—"

Another dramatic pause. " _Hermione_ happened. Yeah, it was…something else," he said, noting Harry's raised brows. "I hope I never see Hermione that angry again in my entire life. She was livid. _'We've known him for years, we fought alongside him at the Ministry, we have been a family to him from the moment we met him, and for you to talk so casually about how much you miss him,like you even knew him—like he's already gone—'"_

Ron took a deep breath before plowing on, "And then Fleur again— _'Only because he 'ad ze misfortune of being born in zis Britain! To 'ave gone to zat school! With those incompetent teachers and zis inadequate Order!'_ , and then—"

Another moment of theatrical silence, "…my _mum_ happened."

Ron looked like he was reliving a terrible, bloody battle. "She came downstairs when she heard the commotion… It got really out of hand, then—I can't even repeat what she said—but then Ginny shouted something else, and Fleur and Gabby started screeching things at her in French that were obviously not very polite, and then wands were being drawn, and I swear on Merlin's grave, I thought Fleur was really going to turn into a bird-monster and start flinging fireballs—which, you know, I've never asked Bill if she can do that; I didn't think she could, but it sure as hell looked like it was going to happen—and then, and then…"

He looked back and forth between Harry and Draco, his eyes wide with disbelief and distress.

"…And then they all start crying."

"What?" Harry balked.

"Yeah, all at once, they start crying. Bawling, really, sobbing, and they sort of fell into this giant embrace, like the saddest, most miserable group hug ever, and—well, for once, I don't think my mum will be mad when I go back, because we _all_ bolted. Me, my dad, Bill, Fred, George, and Charlie—we all got the hell out of there immediately. It was every man for himself. I've no idea where they all went."

He stared vacantly up at the ceilinf, like a haunted, troubled war veteran. "I wonder if they made it out alive," he said hollowly.

Harry couldn't suppress his grin any longer. He also couldn't help but feel a bit guilty; it was, after all, _he_ they had been arguing over.

Ron shook his head as though he were trying to physically shake away the memory. "Anyway…" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a shrunken, familiar trunk and miniscule broom. "I managed to grab these before my retreat…"

"My trunk!" Harry exclaimed, looking at the tiny luggage in his palm. He had forgotten that Hermione had promised to bring him clothes. "And my Firebolt!" His grin widened exponentially at the sight of his beloved broom. "Wow—thanks!"

"Yeah, we had them with us earlier, but Hermione forgot to actually give them to you. Typical, huh? That she would remember to give you your O.W.L.'s but not something as essential as underwear? And your broom, though I doubt you'll get to do much flying for a while… But I thought you'd want it, obviously. I'll enlarge them for you, but we should do it in whatever room you're staying in so we don't have to move the trunk when it's heavy."

"Right. Yeah, the guest room…" He and Ron both stood, with Harry leading the way. Draco had a fleeting expression where, for just a moment, he looked oddly conflicted, like he might follow—but then he took Harry's now vacant spot on the couch. Without a word, he opened his book and began reading again. Harry and Ron left him without a word.

"You can put them there," Harry said once they'd entered the room, pointing to an empty spot near the foot of his bed. Ron quickly set the tiny trunk down with the broom on top, but when he stood upright again he stared, momentarily frozen as his eyes darted between Harry's bed and the one on the other side of the room.

"Why are both of these beds unmade?" he asked apprehensively.

Harry scratched the back of his head. "Because Malfoy and I are both slobs, I guess," he answered darkly.

Ron looked stricken.

"No."

"Yeah."

_"Why?"_

Harry glowered. "Snape's orders."

 _"Why?"_ Ron repeated.

Harry paused, feeling rather uncomfortable talking about this—even if it was Ron. "…To… so that if I have… To wake me up, if I need to be woken up."

Understanding washed over Ron's face, though his pitying expression was nowhere near as bad as Hermione's. "Oh," he said. And then,"…Blimey. Well, I am really glad that I brought you an additional birthday present, then." He pulled out another miniature object from his inner robe pocket. It was a tiny bottle. Harry looked at it, confused.

_"Engorgio!"_

Ron pointed his wand first at the broom and the trunk, which promptly became life-sized again, and then repeated the spell, directing it at the object in his hand. It rapidly grew to become a large, glass bottle filled with a deep, amber liquid.

"Firewhiskey," he said proudly. "I swiped it from the stock of alcohol we have for the wedding tomorrow. I figured that if it were me, and I were living with Snape and Malfoy, I could use a drink every now and then." He thrust the bottle into Harry's hands, who accepted it, still looking a bit confused.

"Firewhiskey?" he repeated as he examined the golden substance.

Ron grinned. "Your new best friend. Just—whatever you do, don't tell anyone I gave it to you. Hermione would lecture me senseless; Malfoy would just steal it and drink it all himself; and— well, Snape would murder me, I'm sure." His face paled slightly at the last words.

"Seriously, don't let Snape find that."

Harry nodded, trying not to laugh. "Thanks. I won't," he promised. He then gently moved his Firebolt aside, leaning it against the wall before opening his trunk and hiding the bottle at the very bottom, underneath all of his old clothes. He wondered idly if they would still fit, even…

 _Firewhiskey_. Harry somehow doubted that he would ever touch the stuff. Surely drinking was a terrible idea given his current situation, but the sentiment was nice. He closed the trunk, thoughts racing as he looked back up at Ron.

Uncomfortable, irritating thoughts. He scratched the back of his head absent-mindedly again. Ron looked sympathetic.

"Don't worry, the only reason those barriers feel so weird is because they're Snape's, not yours. Your own Occlumency shields won't be like that at all. You barely notice them when they're your own."

Harry's eyebrows raised. "How do you know? Can you…?"

"Yeah. Er, my own. I can practice Occlumency decently well, shielding my own thoughts… Snape demanded that Hermione and I learn how, considering everything that Dumbledore told us—which we'll tell you, too, once it's safe—but only Hermione can manage what Snape's doing to you right now."

He knew that he shouldn't have been, but Harry felt strangely disheartened by this bit of information. Ron could practice Occlumency too, then? Hermione he could understand, but—how was it that Ron had managed to learn something that he, Harry, had been so terrible at?

"Like all things in my life, I only managed to learn the basics because of Hermione," Ron answered as though Harry had asked that question out loud. Harry grinned sheepishly.

"Snape… It's not like he would use an Unforgivable or something on you, would he? If he found out you snuck me in booze…?” Harry asked in a would-be joking manner, suddenly remembering Draco's words from last night.

But to his dismay, Ron's expression darkened. "I dunno… He might."

"Oh, come off it," Harry said.

"I've seen Snape do some serious stuff, mate. He's not… He doesn't mess around."

"Like what?"

Ron sighed as he plopped down on Harry's bed. He looked wistfully at the trunk where Harry had just stashed the whiskey as though he was considering asking to have a swig of it—but then he started to explain. Harry sat next to him.

"There was an incident. A while back, after Dumbledore died… You know how Snape said that the Order was led to believe that this house went to Bellatrix Lestrange, yeah? Well, everyone took that to heart, but Snape put a detection charm on it just in case. It's a really complicated spell, actually. Its seriously powerful magic, a type of ward. Basically, it recognizes me, Hermione, Snape, Malfoy, and now you, because you entered with Snape. But if someone else tries to enter the property, we're alerted at once. Of course, we never dreamed that any of the Order members would be stupid enough to try coming back here, being told that Death Eaters could get in here now, but one person thought that the risk of sneaking in here may be worth it."

Harry gaped. "Who? And why? Why would anyone want to get into this awful house?"

"Mundungus," Ron answered. "Yeah. Honestly? I think he was coming here to try and steal your stuff, mate. But he never really got a proper chance to explain himself. You see, he tried to get in while Snape, Hermione and I were here, and—"

He shuddered. Harry waited with bated breath. "Well, Snape let him in, and he was seriously going to kill him."

"To kill him?" Harry gasped.

"Yes. Because he saw Snape, knew that he was still alive, and, mind you, he, like everyone else in the Order, thought Snape was a true Death Eater, as this was after the Battle at Hogwarts—so Snape was going to kill him. Simple as that. Said he had to; Mundungus was a liability now. He'd even started saying the killing curse, and he really would have done it if Hermione hadn't stopped him."

"What happened, then?"

"She convinced him that he could live; that we could modify his memory and implant an idea in his head. Make him suddenly want nothing more out of life than to leave the country and go live in Sub-Saharan Africa and dedicate his life to saving rhinos and elephants or something, so that no one would ever find him to be able to undo the memory charm—not that anyone would go looking for Mundungus, anyway.”

"And that worked?"

Ron cracked a smile. "Hermione can be very convincing when she wants to be. I was shocked that Snape conceded, truth be told. It really looked like Mundungus was a goner. But yeah. He did it."

Harry grinned, too. "So… Good 'ol Dung is in Africa now? Saving wildlife?" He failed to suppress a chuckle at the thought.

Ron laughed, too. "Yeah. Pretty great visual, huh? Dung on safari? God's speed to him."

They sat in silence for a moment, each envisioning the humorous idea of Mundungus Fletcher preserving wildlife and saving various animals. Then Harry was struck with a sudden thought.

"Ron—do you have—is Hedwig okay?" How could he have forgotten his faithful, snowy owl until just now? "I sent her to the Burrow, before I—before—did she…?"

Harry's words came to a stuttering halt. The smile fell from Ron's face. "Oh. I mean—no, she's fine, she's fine!" he explained quickly, for Harry's face had looked suddenly fearful when Ron's grin vanished. "Yes, she came to the burrow. She… Well, Ginny has essentially adopted her. Even took her to Hogwarts with us…"

Harry smiled at that thought as the relief swept over him. At least Hedwig had been able to go back to Hogwarts… But then why did that statement make Ron look so depressed?

"She won't say that, though. Ginny is very adamant that she is just watching her until you get back. I don't think she… I dunno if Ginny will ever…"

He looked at Harry with a very torn, miserable expression, like he was on the verge of saying something rather profound… but decided against it.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he pulled Harry into an overbearing embrace. "God, I missed you," he mumbled, throwing Harry quite off balance by this unusual display of emotion. "Hogwarts without you…it was the worst year, ever. I just—I can't wait to be able to tell everyone you're okay." He then pulled away, still grasping Harry's shoulders tightly as he held him at arm's length.

"We're going to win this war, Evans," he said in a thick voice. And the look on his face—it was one Harry had never seen there before. Fiercely determined, a sort of vicious courage in his eyes. Where was this confident resolution in their fifth year? Harry would have paid a hundred galleons for Gryffindor's Keeper to be half this ferocious.

Obviously, the past year had wrought some very significant changes in Ronald Weasley.

"We're going to win this war, and life is going to be good again, and—and—"

The passion was really simmering in his eyes, now. Literally glittering, and—oh God, Harry thought, was Ron about to cry?

"Oh God," Ron said, voicing Harry's thoughts precisely. He started to wave his hands, fanning his face like a prom queen who'd just been crowned and handed a bouquet of roses. "Oh God—it's the estrogen, it's gotten to me, too—"

Harry laughed uncomfortably as Ron stood, wiping his face with his sleeves. "This wedding. This war. I can hardly tell the difference between the two anymore, I swear." He dragged his hands down his face, exasperated.

"I'm sorry. I really should be getting back," he mumbled before clearing his throat, and it suddenly seemed as though he was unable to look at Harry.

Harry stood as well. "Um. Yeah. Okay," he said, unsure of how to proceed.

He followed a few paces behind Ron as they went to the front door. Ron hesitated in the entryway, turning and looking at Harry just briefly.

"Good luck," Harry said in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. Ron tried to smile but failed monumentally; it looked more like he was about to start crying again.

"Thanks," he croaked. "I'll… we'll be back when we can." And then he left, stepping out onto the doorstep and disappearing with a loud _crack_. Harry stood there, slowly closing the door behind him and wondering what in the world had just happened.

He was quickly knocked out of his stupor, though, when he heard something from down the hall. Someone moving around, from deeper within the house. "Oh,” said Harry. “Is Snape up, then?"

Harry aimed his question at Draco, who was still reading his book, casually reclined on the couch. He appeared to have observed the interaction between Harry and Ron with palpable disinterest. "He's probably in the kitchen," he answered flatly as he turned another page, not so much as looking up at Harry.

Unbothered by Draco’s aloofness, Harry marched off in that direction. The barriers in his mind felt instantly more irritating as he recalled his dream—the nightmare—the way it had felt when his hands had run across them—

Harry opened the door to the kitchen, which had been closed, oddly enough… and he was stunned into silence at the sight that greeted him.

Snape was cooking.

…And _how_ he cooked.

Multiple burners were on, sautéing what looked like mushrooms and onions; there were at least three different wooden cutting boards upon which various vegetables were being sliced by knives which cut on their own accord, almost surgically precise in their exactness; spices hovered about, flying back and forth from the pantry to add themselves to what appeared to be a giant, simmering pot of… something. Something that smelled delicious, Harry noted at once, and his dormant hunger instantly reared its head like a rabid monster—a very, very famished one.

And in the middle of it all was Snape, orchestrating the entire affair with his wand like some kind of a magical conductor. He had his back to him as he worked, and really, Harry thought wildly, Snape put Mrs. Weasley's cooking skills to shame.

For a moment, Harry just ogled quietly, before he finally forced himself to speak. "Um, Professor?" he started hesitantly, announcing his presence. "Can I… have a word?" He felt rather nervous at interrupting; the Potions Master looked very focused.

"There are few rules that I will implement whilst we are living together…" Snape said with his back still to Harry—but he then turned to face him, and Harry wondered if there was ever a moment in this man's life where his robes didn't billow impressively around him when he moved. "One of them is that when I am in the kitchen, you are not."

At that moment, he pointed his wand at the knives which were cutting up peppers and celery. They began moving twice as quickly, their steely surfaces flashing with the rapid chopping motion.

"O-okay," Harry stuttered, eyes fixed warily on the sinister-looking blades. He backed out of the room at once, his feet absent-mindedly taking him back to front room.

Draco glanced up at him when he entered, smirking at Harry's demeanor. "Did he threaten you with a cutting knife?" he inquired. Harry noticed the hopeful tone in his voice.

"No… Well, not really."

Draco looked disappointed.

Harry scratched the back of his head again, thoughtful. "What a strange day..." he muttered.

Draco snorted. "Yeah. Must be bizarre, knowing you've got Veela women and witches galore fighting and crying over you…" His expression turned mischievously playful as he smirked. "Too bad for them that you don't swing that way."

Harry's eye twitched. "Malfoy, if you don's shut your goddamn mouth, I swear, I'll —"

"You'll what? Throw a soup can at me?"

Harry flexed his arm threateningly, balling his hand into a fist. "Or I'll punch you in the face so hard your jaw won't work anymore."

Draco's grin faltered. His gaze wandered down Harry's arm, and he snapped the book shut, looking as though he'd finally reached his limit. "Okay, _why_ do you look like that?" he spat, motioning towards him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry said coolly, feigning ignorance.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You were—you used to be scrawny, before, you were all thin and wiry and—and _short_ —with your stupid glasses—"

"Why, _Draco_ ," Harry gasped, putting a hand to his chest as though he was deeply flattered. Malfoy flinched at the way Harry called him by his first name, using a tone of voice that was dripping with saccharine sarcasm. "Are you admitting that you were paying that much attention to my _body_ , before?"

Draco's jaw dropped, his face turning red. He looked furious but seemed momentarily speechless. "I think _you're_ the one who swings the other way,” Harry said. “In fact, now that I think on it, that makes complete sense. The way you so desperately wanted to be my friend from day one, the way you always picked fights with me—every year, like clockwork, creeping into our train compartment—I bet you were just crossing your fingers, hoping to catch me while I was changing into my school robes—"

"Shut up!" Draco finally spat, finding his voice. "Shut up! I am not—I just—you know perfectly well what I was getting at."

Harry's grin widened at his lame response. Draco got to his feet, tossing his book down on the sofa. "I'll have you know I basically had a girlfriend before this shit storm happened, ruining my life," he fumed.

"Who, Parkinson?" Harry guessed. He laughed out loud when Draco nodded. "Ha! I think you just helped my case, not yours. Parkinson pretty much looks like a man—also a bit like a pug— besides, who _basically_ has a girlfriend, what does that even mean?"

Draco had just opened his mouth to retort when a cool, condescending drawl interrupted him.

"I believe my instructions were for you to be civil to one another."

Somehow, mysteriously and soundlessly, Snape had entered the room. Harry was seriously starting to think he might be a closet vampire.

"He started it," Harry and Draco said simultaneously, pointing at each other as if they were twelve-year-old children rather than seventeen-year-old adults.

Snape's lips curled up into a sinister yet amused smile. Harry was fully prepared for his old professor to immediately favor Draco, to tell Harry off for being an impudent, reckless moron… and so he was very surprised when this did not happen. Instead, Snape made a noncommittal shrugging motion before turning and heading back to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, from down the hall, he called, "Lunch is ready."

Harry rubbed at his ears worriedly. Surely, he had misheard him. "What did he just say?" he said, his head swiveling in Draco's direction.

But Malfoy had already gotten up and started to head down the hall. "Lunch," he muttered.

Snape—Severus Snape— _the_ Severus Snape… had made him lunch?

Harry followed slowly and apprehensively. He half expected a trapdoor to open beneath his feet at any moment and swallow him whole, confirming that this was, in fact, a trap. When that failed to happen, Harry edged into the kitchen. And there was Snape, sitting at the table with a half-eaten bowl of some kind of stew in front of him, along with an issue of _The Daily Prophet_ which he held propped up in one hand, reading. Draco was helping himself to some food as well, and Harry just stood there, openly staring at them, wondering if maybe he was still asleep after all.

Snape looked away from the paper for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping over Harry. "Eat," he said curtly, before returning his attention back to the _Prophet_.

Harry didn't move. "You've… made food. For… us. For me. To eat," he said dumbly.

Draco sniggered. "That is generally what you do with food," he said. He then sat down at a chair next to Snape and started eating. Harry still didn't move.

"If I did not prepare a decent meal at least occasionally for Draco here, I believe he would eventually expire from a vitamin deficiency. And it would really undo a substantial amount of my hard work if I allowed him to die from a mere lack of essential nutrients.” Draco looked indignant at that statement, but he chose not to comment. “The same goes for you,” Snape continued. “While it was undoubtedly a kind gesture, you cannot live off of… birthday cake."

Harry only then noticed that the cake from earlier was gone. "Where did it go?" he asked, more curious than upset.

"Away," Snape said simply. When Harry continued to make no indication that he was going to move, Snape added, quite sternly, " _Eat_. Normally, there would be bread, too, but Draco unwittingly finished off the last of it before I could perform a simple duplicating charm."

Draco glowered again, but still said nothing.

With slow, deliberate movements, Harry finally served himself a small bowl of stew. He sat at the seat across from Draco and to Snape's right, and he couldn't even begin to properly explain how uncomfortable it felt.

He took a tentative sip of the soup, figuring it must be okay if both Draco and Snape himself were eating it. His eyes widened in disbelief when he swallowed.

"Oh my god," he said disconcertingly as he lowered his spoon. Both Draco and Snape looked at him quizzically.

"Sorry," Harry said, sounding flustered. "It's just. It's—this is _really_ good."

Draco rolled his eyes, but Snape actually looked offended at his shock. "I can brew a Draught of Living Death with my eyes closed. You think a mere beef bourguignon stew is beneath me?"

Harry tried not to laugh. "No, I just—well—never mind."

There was a long moment of silence, and when Snape spoke next, Harry was certain it was going to be an insult or condescending remark—but, once again, he was wrong. Snape lowered the paper and set it flat on the table.

"You said you wanted to have a word?"

His former professor sounded oddly nonchalant. Harry looked up. "Er…yeah." His gaze involuntarily went to Malfoy, wary.

Snape understood at once. "Draco," he said tersely. He motioned towards the door. "Leave us."

Draco’s spoon clattered loudly against the table as he dropped it. He looked back and forth between Harry and Snape, mutiny etched on all of his pointed features. "What!?" he shouted. "Seriously? With him, too!? I—"

"Out." The word was spoken softly, but there was a threatening, icy undertone that left no room for argument. Malfoy stood, nearly knocking his chair over as he did. He marched out of the room like a child throwing a temper tantrum, leaving his food behind and muttering something along the lines of 'fucking ridiculous' in a low voice.

Once he had gone, Snape folded his hands in front of him, suddenly business-like. "You wanted to have a word?" he repeated, refusing to acknowledge Malfoy's crass behavior.

Harry swallowed thickly. "Er…yes. Um. Well, can you… Do you feel… What I mean to say is… If these wards in my mind, if they're touched or disturbed or whatever… Do you feel it?"

Snape's eyes widened slightly, but his composed expression remained otherwise unchanged. "No. I do not feel them at all, as they are in your mind… Though I would know at once if they were broken, obviously. For one, I would no longer suffer the repercussions of having my own energy being drained, and for another…well. Why do you ask? Surely you have not been foolish enough to disturb them?" He frowned for a second, and Harry could swear that he felt the irritating feeling clinging to his every thought increase. "I can sense that they are all perfectly intact…"

"No, ah—" Harry scratched at his head uselessly. "No, I didn't do anything, I just—when I was dreaming, when I could… hear him, last night…"

Harry’s voice trailed off. Why, why was his face burning up again? This shouldn't be so difficult to talk about!

But it _was_. Snape waited patiently.

"…He touched them. From the outside. It felt…" Harry shuddered, unable to put such a sensation into words. Snape's face remained unmoved. "You said you couldn't feel anything? So, you didn't feel it, when it happened?"

"I did not."

Harry grimaced. "Well, I could, and it was awful. I'm sure he doesn't know that I'm alive now, though, that's for sure, because otherwise he wouldn't have stopped doing it. It was just for a second, like he was just running his hands across them, more curious than anything—but if he'd known… if he finds out…" He paused for a moment, looking worried.

Snape put a hand under his chin, appearing merely contemplative, but Harry could see what was there in the depths of those dark eyes. Fear.

"I believe," Snape began in a measured voice, "That the connection between you and the Dark Lord is extremely complicated, and not purely… mental. Or even purely magical, truly. There is something deeper, much more potent, which is binding you to him."

_Oh, like a fragment of his soul attached to mine, professor? Being bonded by souls? Like…_

Harry suddenly felt a great rush of nausea. For he nearly used the word _soulmates_ to refer to the relationship between Lord Voldemort and himself, and wasn't that just the most perverse, appalling concept in the entire world?

Snape, of course, misinterpreted the way Harry's face had suddenly turned a delicate shade of green. "That is not to say that it is impossible to block off. I only think that it is something I am incapable of doing for you. This bond, if my assumptions are correct—and they generally are—is a very… shall we say, intimate one. The only one who would be able to practice Occlumency successfully against it, then, is you."

Harry nodded weakly. "So… you're going to start teaching me Occlumency again?" He detested the very idea of it, but he would far prefer to relive Occlumency lessons with Snape than continue to have these itchy, unnatural barriers in his head.

But Snape shook his head. "Not yet. Practicing true Legilimency and Occlumency with you would mean removing those mental walls, and we can't risk that at the moment. In a few weeks, perhaps."

Harry's heart plummeted. “Weeks?”

"Yes,” said Snape. “However, in the meantime, I believe you can, perhaps, learn to block out the parsletongue."

A flicker of hope ignited in Harry’s chest. "Really?"

"Yes. From what I can deduce, the bond between the two of you is completely separate from the mind—which is why I cannot fully disrupt it. You, however, as the one is affected by this particular… intrusion, should be capable. From now on, every night before you go to sleep, practice emptying your mind again. Clearing your thoughts. It should, conceivably, lesson his influence and quiet his voice."

Harry nodded weakly. "Okay," he said, a bit disappointed. It didn't sound like much.

Snape continued to look at him thoughtfully. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"

He said it casually enough, but Harry could tell there was a deep implication in that question. Like he knew—and maybe he did—that there was a large part of the interactions between himself and the Dark Lord that Harry was leaving out.

"No," Harry said instead, not meeting his gaze. "No, that was it… sir."

Snape didn't say anything. Still, Harry could feel his scrutinizing gaze lingering on him while he resolutely did not make eye contact, suddenly focusing on the food in front of him with overtly keen interest. After a long moment, Snape propped the _Prophet_ back up again, disappearing behind it like some kind of paper curtain.

Harry ate the rest of his food slowly, trying his best not to let the word 'soulmate' enter his psyche again. He preoccupied himself by reading the article on the back of the newspaper which was facing him, the opposite side of which Snape was reading—an article about Gringotts, and how security measures were going to be changing and increasing in the coming year. Harry sipped his soup quietly, watching the moving image of a stout, contemptuous-looking goblin as he sat behind his desk at the wizarding bank…

After what must have been nearly ten minutes, there was a loud banging on the door. "Am I allowed to come in, yet?" Draco sneered, clearly still in a tizzy at being kicked out.

Snape lowered the paper again, rubbing his temples and looking worn. But when he spoke, his voice was crisp and curt as usual. "Yes. _Please_ do."

Snape stood as Draco entered. Before Malfoy could ask anything, the older wizard spoke, looking back and forth between the two of them. "As I so graciously prepared food for you, I shall leave you two to clean up." He gestured towards the dishes that were scattered about the kitchen—of which there were many, really. Harry nodded, but Draco instantly looked mutinous again.

"What?" he barked resentfully. "Clean dishes, like _muggles?_ Why don't you just do it?"

Harry almost couldn't believe how rude he was being—even if it was Malfoy. But Snape looked unabashed. He retracted his wand, and, for a crazy moment Harry thought he was actually going to listen to Draco and start casting cleaning spells. Instead he pointed it at the issue of _The Daily Prophet_ , summoning it across the room into his open palm.

"Because I don't want to," he said, smirking. "Some muggle chores will be good for you… Perhaps Evans will help teach you about a little something known as ethics."

He glanced briefly at Harry when he said this, who nodded again as he, too, stood. How strange, Harry thought, to feel like he was on the same side as Snape…

Malfoy watched the interaction with a murderous expression on his face. Snape's smirk widened.

"I shall leave you to it, then," he drawled before turning to leave the kitchen.

"Wait—uh, Professor?"

Snape paused, turning around at the sound of Harry's voice. He raised one eyebrow. Harry took a deep breath before saying it, feeling very awkward as he did.

"…Thank you."

Snape looked equally uncomfortable.

"Er… You know… for the food," he added, even though it was obvious that his statement of gratitude was far more profound than that.

The Potions Master's features contorted into a conflicted sort of grimace, like he wasn't sure how to handle genuine graciousness coming from his least favorite ex-student. He eventually settled for a curt nod, saying nothing, then swept out of the room.

Malfoy kicked a chair after he left. "Bastard," he muttered. Harry tried not to laugh, gathering up dishes from around the room and setting them all on the counter next to the sink.

"Just shut up and grab a towel."

* * *

They worked in tense silence.

Well, near silence. Malfoy couldn't seem to help but mutter bitter comments under his breath occasionally as he clumsily dried the dishes that Harry cleaned. It had become evident at once that Draco had never so much as touched a dirty dish, let alone cleaned one, and he somehow managed to be bad even at wiping them dry—he nearly dropped the frying pan, twice—and didn't seem to grasp the concept of putting things away neatly in the slightest. Harry, however—having essentially been a servant for the Dursleys for most his life—had ample practice with such mundane tasks. He therefore found Draco's incompetence humorous. But whenever he muttered things such as 'would've taken him two seconds', and 'cleaning like squibs', and 'if I had my wand', Harry would roll his eyes, ignoring him.

Harry had just finished cleaning the very last bowl when a loud _thud_ sounded from above, shocking them both. Draco did drop the pot he was drying, then. It clattered loudly when it hit the kitchen floor.

"Wish we had a real house-elf," he growled as he picked it up. "A proper one, not that filthy thing…"

Harry snorted. "I'm surprised Kreacher didn't like you," he commented darkly. He remembered how that horrible elf had left the house, reporting to Bellatrix Lestrange, because she was a proper, pure-blooded witch…

"Oh, it tried," Draco sneered. "Practically threw itself at my feet when I got here—but I wouldn't let that disgusting creature near me."

How ironic, Harry thought as he dried his hands. He looked pensively up at the ceiling. The one person that Kreacher would have potentially listened to in this house was the one who would undoubtedly treat him the worst. Ron may not have been kind to Kreacher, but he would never be cruel, and Hermione… well, Hermione would treat him like an equal. But that foul elf would never even consider approaching her, simply because she was muggle-born.

Blood status. Its pointless hierarchy was the cause of most of the turmoil in his life, Harry realized.

"What do you think he's doing up there, to make such a loud noise?" he asked, his gaze still focused upwards.

"Who cares?" Draco muttered.

"I'm kind of curious. Maybe I'll go up there and see…”

Draco's face paled slightly. " _I'm_ not going up there," he said at once.

"Why not? Are you scared of Kreacher, Malfoy?"

Draco glared. "No. But that thing is nasty, and I'm sure its little home up there is even fouler."

Harry grinned, recognizing the opportunity and seizing it. Anything to get away from Malfoy for a while. "Well, I'm going to go find out," he said, clapping his hands together jubilantly. "Guess you have no choice but to come with me, since you're supposed to be _keeping an eye_ on me and all…"

"No way." Draco was outwardly nervous, now. "I'm not going in that creepy attic, and neither are you."

"Try and stop me."

Draco's brows furrowed, looking conflicted as he once more took in Harry's clearly superior strength. When Harry went to leave the room, he seemed to reach a conclusion.

"Merlin, fine! Just don't let Snape find out you went up there or that I didn't stay with you," he fumed. "And… and don't be up there long."

Harry turned to give Draco a wide, dazzling smile. "I wouldn't dream of it," he promised. He then turned and left the kitchen, leaving Malfoy to wallow in solitude.

Victory.

* * *

Harry made his way up the stairs, moving as quietly as he could on the creaky floorboards. Presumably, Snape was in his room, for Harry saw no signs of him as he edged cautiously around the house. He wondered if he had gone back to sleep. He smirked at the thought. For some reason, the idea of a chronically sleepy Snape was very amusing to him… Even if was sort of his fault that he was constantly fatigued.

And so Harry crept quietly, recognizing that waking a Potions Master may be worse than waking a dragon. As he climbed the stairs, he stopped suddenly on the topmost floor, right before the entrance to the attic. There, on the door in front of him, was a plate with a name written on it that froze Harry's heart in his chest midbeat.

Sirius.

…Sirius's bedroom.

Next to it was his brother's, Regulus's, but Harry's eyes remained fixed on the name of his Godfather. He had never been in Sirius's room…

For a moment, his hand hovered over the doorknob, about to go in—but then he couldn't do it. Waves of sorrow and regret began to wash over Harry in droves, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't handle it, seeing where his Godfather had stayed while he was here, miserable both in his youth and in the last years of his life. Sirius may have passed away over a year ago, but the loss of the closest thing he had left to a family member still felt horrendously fresh to Harry, who had slept most of that time. A deep, terrible wound that had not properly begun to heal yet.

Someday, he would go in. But not now.

Harry stepped away, turning his attention instead towards Kreacher's current imprisonment. The attic door on the ceiling had a handle on the outside and a sliding lock, and was just a bit too high for Harry to easily reach, even with his newfound height. He jumped once, twice. On his third try he managed to swipe at the metal knob, successfully unlocking it, and on the fourth jump he grasped the handle, pulling the door open as he hit the ground. A small ladder slid out towards him.

It was ominously quiet. Harry had almost expected the elf to come hurtling down the ladder the moment he opened the door, but nothing happened. It was dark up there, too, and rather foreboding, Harry suddenly appreciated why Malfoy was so reluctant to come anywhere near this place.

But Harry wasn't a cowardly Slytherin with a healthy dose of self-preservation; he was a reckless, bold, curious Gryffindor. And so up the ladder he went.

It was _disgusting_.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was a combination of rotting food of some kind, like cheese gone bad, dirty laundry, and dust, all mixed together and made worse by the prolonged containment in this stagnant air. Harry coughed as he looked around, eyes narrowed as he peered in the darkness.

It wasn't a very big room, but there was a lot of junk in it. Piles of clothes and rags, old boxes and chests and all sorts of odd items that made no sense being up here. Obviously, Kreacher had been hoarding again before he was locked up.

"…Kreacher?" Harry called tentatively, eyes darting around the room.

There was a shuffling behind him. Harry whipped around, instinctively reaching for his wand before remembering that he did not have one.

And there he was. The wrinkly elf was tucked away in a corner, hiding under a moldy old towel. His giant eyes were shining as they reflected what little light there was coming from the open door in the floor. He ogled at Harry as the cloth slid off his bald head, revealing his long, batty ears and withered frame.

He looked terrified. Kreacher’s whole body was trembling, clearly stunned.

Harry felt an unexpected wave of pity. Kreacher had probably run to the corner and hidden when the door opened, fearful of whoever it was that was coming up here—had Malfoy or Snape done something cruel to him?—and he had been stuck in here for God only knew how long. Weeks? Months? Trapped in a small, terrible confinement…

Harry could relate to that.

"The… the boy-who-lived… but Kreacher thought he was dead, Kreacher thought he was gone…"

The empathy swelled in Harry's heart as the old elf took a hesitant step forward, muttering.

"But he is here, in mistress's house, here with the mudblood and the filth and how mistress would cry if she knew, knew that half-bloods and traitors desecrated her halls…"

Empathy which was quickly gone, popping like an overblown balloon in his chest.

Harry scowled. "Kreacher," he said, his tone irate, "What are you doing up here that makes such a loud noise?"

"And now he is talking to Kreacher, and Kreacher does not want to talk to him, to speak with the half-blood, the—"

"Answer the question," Harry interrupted. Kreacher's eye twitched.

"Kreacher is sometimes trying to get out, to go downstairs, to save mistress's precious things, to go to mistress and speak to her and obey her and Kreacher, oh how Kreacher misses his mistress—"

"How are you trying to get out that makes that thunking sound?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised. "Show me."

Kreacher looked mutinous, his face contorting in rage, but seeing as Harry was his new master he could not disobey. He stalked across the room and climbed onto what looked like an old wardrobe. For a moment he stood on top of it, glowering down at Harry. And then he dove.

Harry jumped as the fragile looking creature propelled himself downwards, colliding headfirst into the wooden floor as though he wished to launch himself straight through it like a cannonball. But he _wasn't_ a cannonball; he was a light, insubstantial house-elf, and when his head hit the floor the only effect it had was to create a loud, reverberating _thud_.

"Good God," Harry gasped as he stepped away. Kreacher got to his feet, wobbling like… well, like he had just hit his head very hard. "Kreacher! What the _hell!?_ You've been trying to—to just dive through the floor!? Don't do that anymore!"

Kreacher stumbled to one side, staggering like he was drunk. But that didn't stop him from glaring at Harry, or from muttering insults.

"Now he dares to tell Kreacher to stop, to not go see his mistress…" His wide eyes rolled around in his head, settling on the space in the floor where the open door was. He started stumbling towards it, wheezing.

"I command you not to leave this room," Harry said quickly, and Kreacher froze in place.

"How he—and now—filthy scum—blood traitors and mudbloods in my mistress's house, oh, how she would cry, how disappointed she would be in her Kreacher—"

"Kreacher, shut up."

The elf's mouth snapped shut. He glowered at Harry furiously before darting haphazardly into a corner, hiding under another deteriorating old towel.

 _So that's what he's been doing up here,_ Harry thought. Literally throwing himself against the walls… Harry shook his head. At least he had put a stop to that…

Harry began to peruse the room with caution. Kreacher had really hoarded a lot of stuff before being trapped in here. Lots of his mistress's old clothes and shoes, and on a wooden table there was a collection of what could only have been Mrs. Black's dear, personal items…

There was a gilded hand mirror, which must have been beautiful when it was polished and new but was now dirty; a few jewelry boxes— Harry recognized one as the box that they had found two summers ago, which played music and made them all feel sleepy—an assortment of jewelry, including many glittering rings, bracelets, and long, elegant necklaces; and in the middle of them all, like Kreacher had decided it was special and deserved to be in the center by itself… a locket.

Harry recognized that object too. He picked it up and tried to open it. Maybe now that he was a bit stronger he would be able to pry it apart…? But no, he still couldn't manage it…

Something hard collided with Harry's leg. He nearly fell over, clutching the side of the table for support as he looked down, startled. Kreacher had run straight into him, head-butting him in the shin. "OW!" Harry yelled, kicking the furious elf aside. "Get off! And stop using your head as a weapon already!"

Kreacher obeyed, technically. He instantly started scratching at Harry's legs instead, reaching up with thin, weak limbs as he desperately tried to snatch the locket out of Harry's hands. But his attempts were pathetic at best. "Stop that," Harry said, and Kreacher ceased his flailing. He continued to stare at the necklace with wide eyes, such an intense longing in them that Harry thought they may just pop right out of his head.

Harry looked at it as well, examining this seemingly very special piece of jewelry. It was worth a lot of money, that much was obvious. The locket was large and heavy, made of shining, luscious silver with a large ‘S’ embossed on the surface. It was quite nice, actually; not at all gaudy or girly like most lockets that Harry had seen… As a matter of fact, it looked more masculine than anything else, like it had been designed for a wizard, not a witch…

Really, the more Harry looked at it, the more he liked it. The silver also happened to match his new watch precisely, and, well, maybe he was rationalizing poorly for suddenly wanting to take a locket he couldn't even open—but it wasn't every day that you came of age, right?

Apparently this conclusion showed on his face, for Kreacher made a horrible, strangled noise that erupted from the bottom of his throat.

"NO! That locket—it is Kreacher's, it was belonging to Master Reg—"

"I thought I told you to shut up," Harry snarled, and Kreacher immediately stopped talking. And then ran headfirst into the wall, banging his head against it in self-punishment.

"Stop that!" Harry shouted, exasperated. Kreacher did, turning to look back at Harry with that ugly glower again. Harry's fingers tightened around the locket in annoyance, and as he looked down at the back of his hand, he was struck with a sudden idea.

"You know what you need, Kreacher?" Harry said thoughtfully as he looked about the room. He found an old piece of parchment and, after a few moments of rummaging, a fancy-looking old quill and some ink.

"You need a task. Something to keep you busy so you don't try and fling yourself through solid walls… Here." He set the paper and the quill on the ground, motioning towards them.

"You're going to do lines for me, Kreacher," Harry said as ugly, terrible memories came rushing back to him, making him spiteful and malevolent. "I order you to write the words, 'I must not tell lies'… Write it… I dunno, a thousand times."

Kreacher's angry expression twisted even more as he begrudgingly made his way over to the parchment. When he picked up the quill, it was clear that he wanted nothing more than to stab Harry in the leg with it—but slowly, heatedly, he began to write.

Harry turned his attention back to the locket. Was it stupid, to want to take this old thing?

It was Kreacher's expression that did it. He continued to write, but his giant eyes were fixed on Harry, so livid and distressed at the thought of Harry taking it that, as far as Harry was concerned, it settled the matter. He put the chain around his neck, smirking as he watched Kreacher's eyes bulge alarmingly in their sockets.

"Happy birthday to me," he said, shoving the locket under his shirt and out of sight. Even if it was masculine looking, he didn't feel like letting Malfoy see that he had decided to wear a necklace.

Feeling as though he'd spent quite enough time in the disguisting attic, Harry made his way to the door. He was just about to climb down the ladder when he suddenly remembered his promise.

"Oh—Kreacher, I command you not to tell anyone that I've been up here," he said. He then pulled the locket out from under his shirt, examining it for another moment, before adding,"or that I took this."

Kreacher's eye was twitching so badly Harry thought he might be on the verge of a stroke. Yet his hand continued to write, unable to disobey an order, even now. Harry smirked as he descended the ladder. At the very last moment, with only his head popping up into the room, he said, "Better make it two thousand."

Harry then closed the attic door, locking it behind him.


	8. Dead and in the Dark

"So where is this supposed library?"

Harry found Draco in the front room reading the same book from before. Malfoy looked up, closing it softly and looking resigned.

"This way." Harry was pleasantly surprised when he didn't argue or make any other kind of snide remark. He simply walked down the hall, motioning for Harry to follow him. Harry did. They made their way past the kitchen, through the drawing room, down another hall (Harry had never truly appreciated just how big this house was before) and soon came to a tall, impressive looking mahogany door—a door that Harry was quite certain had not existed when they had lived there last summer.

"It was protected by some pretty serious concealment charms… I'm just going to assume by the look on your face that they found it after you lived here," Malfoy explained before Harry could ask. He gripped the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Harry was amazed at the sight that met him.

"Snape thinks that Orion Black may have hidden this room even from his own family. There were quite a few old texts in here on dark magic… Stuff that would put the books that are in the restricted section of Hogwarts' library to shame."

To call this room a library seemed a bit wrong, Harry thought; it was much, much more than that. There were many tall, towering shelves filled with books, yes, that was true—but there was also a few chintz armchairs, a large, ornate desk, an elegant couch, and what looked like several tables, chests, and benches against the wall that were currently covered in old sheets. The room had an air about it that made it clear it had not been used in a very long time; the sort of neglected feel that the rest of the house had when they'd first arrived—though there were no doxy infestations or concealed boggarts anywhere, as far as Harry could tell.

"Wow," he said as he ran his hands idly along the spines of some of the books. He was then hit with a brilliant thought.

Maybe he could find some information on _horcruxes_ …

"Books on dark magic, you said?" Harry's asked, keeping his tone light and conversational.

"Yeah," Draco spat, annoyed. "There _were_ , anyway."

"What do you mean?"

" _Granger_ took them all. Hoarded them all to herself, bookworm that she is. Said they may come in handy for her super-secret research…" He scoffed, and it could not have been more obvious that Draco was exceptionally sour at not being let in on whatever this mission was.

Well, Harry thought, at least he, Harry, wasn't alone at being left in the dark this time around… Then again, while misery did enjoy company, he wasn't sure the company of Draco Malfoy was much consolation.

"Damn," he muttered.

Malfoy peered at him questionably. "Why? Were _you_ wanting to research the Dark Arts?” he drawled, simultaneously sarcastic and suspicious.

Harry shrugged as he began to browse the many texts. "Maybe."

"Why?"

"So that I can learn how to become the new Dark Lord and usurp you-know-who's throne, kill all of the muggle-borns, and rule over the entire wizarding world," Harry replied. He did such a good job as sounding casual and at keeping a straight face that when he looked back up at Malfoy, it was to be met with the sight of a slack-jawed blonde boy.

But he couldn't suppress it for long. After a moment of appreciating how deeply that had affected his Slytherin counter-part, Harry grinned, and then burst out into laughter.

"Kidding!" he said, and Malfoy, though he tried to appear haughty and annoyed, cracked a smile too. "Did I honestly have you going? That easily?"

Malfoy tried to wipe the smile from his face. "No," he said, but his expression indicated otherwise. "But—I mean—of course not."

"I'm sort of the opposite of a Dark Lord. Or so I've been told, anyway."

"That's not what they were saying in our second year," Draco countered, smirking.

"True," Harry replied, returning his attention to the books on the shelves. "But I'm not trying to be a Dark Lord, and I'm no evil, sardonic Slytherin…"

"I take offense to that."

Harry picked up a book with mild interest, something about charms... "Good. You _should_ take offense to that, you evil, sardonic, Slytherin," he murmured as he flipped it open.

"Better than being a reckless Gryffindor," Draco shot back. "At least we have sense. There's a reason you landed yourself in so many stupid, insane predicaments, you know. You don't think before you act."

Harry's body tensed at the implication in those words. "I'm about to not think before I act by punching you in the face. We'll see how much sense you have left, then."

Draco took a step back, but didn’t stop. "Did I touch a nerve, Evans?" he said softly. "Feeling a bit of regret for that Gryffindor bravery of yours? The kind of recklessness that made you think it was a good idea to get on the Knight Bus, perhaps?"

Harry snapped the book shut, shoving it back onto the shelf from where he'd gotten it. "You have no idea what happened," he said scathingly, clenching his fists. But it seemed that Draco was curious enough to continue to push the matter, despite the threat.

"You're right," he admitted, gray eyes warily flickering down to Harry's tensed forearm. "I don't. I don't know what happened. So why don't you enlighten me."

Harry considered him for a moment, his head cocked slightly to one side…but then he turned away, looking back again towards the books. "I'd rather not."

"Oh, _come on!"_ Malfoy was actually _pouting_. If Harry hadn't found it so annoying, it might have been funny.

"Do you always whine this much? You're worse than my cousin. Actually, I bet you and Dudley would have gotten along famously… If he weren't a muggle, anyway…"

Malfoy could not have possibly looked more offended. "I beg your pardon?" he said shrilly.

"I said you're more spoiled and annoying than my fat, immature, _muggle_ cousin," Harry said. "…And he was stupid too."

"Guess it runs in your family, then," Draco fired back, hands on his hips.

Harry threw a book at him, as annoyed at himself for being unable to think of a good response to that as he was at Draco himself. To his disappointment, Malfoy was prepared for flying objects this time around, and caught it nimbly with one hand. He grinned victoriously.

"You're insufferable," Harry murmured as he turned away.

Malfoy laughed triumphantly but didn't further prod him.

 _Damn him,_ Harry thought resentfully. He distracted himself by exploring the large area that was really more of giant study than a library. He turned his attention to the opposite side of the room, wanting to get as far a physically possible from the leering smirk of Draco Malfoy. Harry was already keeping a tally in his head of their verbal battles. Thus far, he and the Slytherin prat were at tied, one to one.

 _But I will win the war_ , he thought as he pulled a sheet off what was revealed to be an old, wooden chest. It reminded him of the one which had sat in Moody's office in their fourth year. Well…the fake Moody, at any rate. Harry tried for a few moments to open it, but it was locked, and he saw no key in sight. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for one.

Harry then moved on to unveil what he thought would be simply a tall table with boxes on it, but he was wrong. There were boxes on it, yes—a few haphazardly piled cardboard packages containing he didn't even care what, for the moment he realized what it was he had unearthed, he began pulling them off, quickly, tossing them onto the floor at his feet.

He smiled. Harry smiled so wide that it hurt his face, laughing at what he had found, here, of all places.

"What?" came Draco's sneering voice. He peered around the corner of a bookshelf, the smirk still lingering on his face from his earlier victory. But Harry was too happy to be bothered by it. He was grinning like a child on Christmas morning when he looked back at Draco, his voice almost giddy.

"A piano," he said, gesturing towards the giant, glossy black instrument beside him, which was in astonishingly good condition. Draco cocked an eyebrow at him as if to say, 'So?', but Harry just smiled brighter, his eyes shining.

"We could have _music_."

* * *

As it transpired… Harry was not good at the piano.

Despite his dreams, in which he had been so skilled that he could play complex, haunting melodies while simultaneously taunting a skulking Dark Lord… Well, this, as it turned out, was simply not reality.

Though that hadn't stopped him from trying.

He'd found some sheet music—stacks of it were inside one of the boxes which he'd removed from the top of the piano—but they did him essentially no good at all. He couldn't read sheet music, and he had no idea what the black dots with sticks coming out of them meant nor what the numbers at the beginning of each row of lines were trying to tell him. He _wanted_ to know, though; was desperate enough even to ask Malfoy if he knew, but the arrogant prat knew as much about musical theory as he did about muggle celebrity gossip or cleaning dishes. Harry was on his own.

And he was bad.

Terrible, really.

It was so frustrating! He could _hear_ it in his head, the enthralling melody was _right there_ , in the periphery of his mind—but his fingers fumbled ineloquently at the keys, trying and failing miserably to replicate anything near what he had created in his dreams. His thoughts itched, highly uncomfortable and he tried to recall that music.

"Ugh, stop that," Malfoy eventually snapped, losing all patience with Harry's attempt at music as he sat in one of the study's chintz armchairs. He closed the book he was reading. "You've never even touched a piano before, have you?"

"That's arguable," Harry said, frowning as he continued to concentrate on the melody in his head and match it.

Malfoy didn't bother trying to decipher what that comment meant. "Well, you're terrible, and it's annoying. Stop it."

"If it's bothering you, go away. No one is making you sit there and suffer through this."

"I would if Snape hadn't told me—"

"To keep an eye on me, yes, yes, I'm aware of what Snape said. Didn't stop you from staying behind when I went up to the attic, though."

Draco glowered but didn't respond. He turned his attention back to his book, his brows furrowed as he muttered what was quickly becoming his favorite phrase, 'If I had my wand…'

Harry smirked as he continued to struggle, feeling smug that Draco had resigned to stay put and suffer through his dismal musical efforts. _Two to one,_ he thought wryly.

But even with the added incentive of knowingly annoying Malfoy, Harry’s determination eventually burnt out. After nearly an hour of horrible attempts at playing something that resembled his dream song, Harry gave up, choosing instead to find something to read… and as he was browsing the selection of books which Hermione had chosen not to take with her, Harry began to become truly, painfully aware of his situation.

This was going to be his life. For an undeterminable amount of time, this was what he was going to deal with every day. Itchy, uncomfortably thoughts, stuck in this house, with little to distract him from the terrifying knowledge that an obsessive monster was lurking around the outskirts of his mind… and, on top of that, he had only a sleepy Snape and an infuriating Draco Malfoy to keep him company. It had barely even been a full day, and Harry was already exceptionally bored and depressed.

He sighed as he turned a corner, nearly jumping out of his skin when he almost collided with the sleepy Snape himself.

_"Fuck!"_

Harry couldn't stop himself from shouting out loud. Snape's dark brows raised, looking more surprised at his outburst than insulted. Harry's hand flew to his chest, his heart racing.

"H-how do you do that?" he stuttered, taking a step back. Draco was sniggering from his spot on the couch.

Snape didn't bother answering, nor making any indication whatsoever that Harry had just sworn in his face. "Come with me. Both of you," he drawled instead, turning and walking away. He held an arm out as he went, motioning for them to follow. The way it made his cloak billow made Harry think wildly of someone strutting on a catwalk. Really, how did he get his robes to flutter around him like that? Was he consistently, wandlessly conjuring up a puff of wind every time he turned a corner?

"I have something to show you." 

* * *

 

A few moments later and Harry, Draco, and their ex-professor (who still demanded to be called 'sir', regardless of the fact that neither of them were his students any longer) were gathered in the front room. Once there, Snape pulled out of his robe pocket what appeared to be a shiny, silver necklace.

But not just any necklace. It was a locket.

"This," the older wizard began, holding the glittering piece of jewelry out in front of him, "is a portkey. It will remain in here, in this room, up here on the mantle. It is for emergency purposes only."

He placed it on a hook high up on the wall, above the mantle as he'd indicated.

Harry stared at it in genuine surprise. Another locket. In fact, it looked a great deal like the one he had just found a few hours ago, only it was smaller, and clearly not as nice… Rather like the cheap, trinket-y version of the one which now rested against his sternum, hidden underneath his shirt. Harry absent-mindedly ran a hand across his chest to feel it there under the fabric. It was warm against his skin.

"This is a very complicated and intricate portkey," Snape went on, gesturing towards the locket above him. "It is triggered not by a specific moment in time, but by a key phrase. In order for it to be activated, one must be making physical contact with it and say the words, 'Chosen One'.

Harry blinked in bemusement, while Draco, contrastingly, scoffed. "'Chosen One?'" he drawled. He peered at Harry with a somewhat condescending gaze. "I haven't heard anyone refer to you by _that_ title in a long time… Why that phrase?"

Snape's eyes narrowed when he answered. "I don't know, Miss Granger was the one to set it up," he said, and it was clear that this fact annoyed him greatly and on many different levels. "But it hardly matters. It is functional, and it will work if it should be necessary for you two to make a quick escape from this place, should I be… indisposed."

Harry's blood ran cold at the thought of what kind of situation could possibly occur to leave Snape 'indisposed', but he chose not to linger on it. "Where does it go, Professor?" he asked instead, trying to sound casual about the whole ordeal.

"An undisclosed but safe location."

"Why can't we know where?" Draco barked at once. Harry was glad he'd asked. He was trying his best to not be rude and push his luck with Snape, but he was deeply curious.

Snape didn't answer the question anyway. "All you need to know is that it will take you somewhere safe. God willing, you will never have to find out. It is only to be used in the case of an extreme emergency. Unregistered portkeys are exceptionally difficult to activate, especially ones as intricate and secretive as this. This is the only one we have, so don't even consider wasting it because of some reckless, bold, _heroic_ mood swing." His dark eyes flashed to Harry's, and Harry couldn't help but be a bit offended. Did he really think that he would waste something like this so carelessly?

He tried not to laugh out loud at the thought. Really, he'd never once given Snape the impression he was reckless. Honestly, he couldn't think of a single time. Not once.

A smirk at his own inside joke must have shown on his face, because Snape's eyes narrowed so much they became threatening black slits. It wiped the tiny grin from Harry’s face at once. "Is this clear?"

Harry nodded. Snape looked then to Malfoy, whose face was quickly turning red.

"Really? We can't even know where the portkey would take us? _Really?_ " Snape's expression remained unchanged. Malfoy looked like he wanted to punch the wall.

"Is this clear?" Snape repeated, his voice dangerously low now. After a few moments in which Draco looked on the verge of throwing a fit, he finally nodded as well.

"Good," Snape said in a much lighter tone. "That was all. It is getting late. Should you feel the need to eat dinner, I shall leave you to fend for yourselves. You—" he pointed at Harry accusingly, causing him to jump slightly, "—remember to empty your thoughts before falling asleep. Practice clearing your mind. If you manage to become efficient at this simple, relatively easy task, it will make Occlumency lessons much easier when we begin. You—" he pointed at Draco now, who did not jump but continued to look moody, "—try not to make this task difficult for him by bickering. I know it will be monumentally challenging for both of you, but one can hardly be at peace and empty their thoughts with ruffled feathers. In other words—" He looked back and forth between both of them—

"Be civil."

Malfoy glowered, the putrid expression on his face more incensed than Harry had ever seen it— but they both nodded regardless.

"Lovely," Snape said. "Should you need me, you know where I'll be."

The Potions Master then swept from the room in his usual style, that long, black cloak fluttering and flickering behind him as though it had a mind of its own.

"Sweet dreams, children," he called loftily over his shoulder. He then disappeared in the darkness of the hallway.

Harry wasn't sure if he was more annoyed or amused. A bit of both, he supposed.

Malfoy, however, did not look amused in the slightest. "Ridiculous," he muttered scathingly, glaring up at the mundane-looking portkey. The locket glittered innocently at them as though it were winking. "Outrageous, isn't it? That we can't even know where our emergency escape will actually take us?"

Harry looked up at it too, ponderingly. "Maybe he just doesn't want us to get any ideas…"

He thought of how he would feel if he knew with certainty that it would take him to the Burrow… and as soon as he thought of it, Harry became aware that this was, in all actuality, very likely. He was filled with such longing that it truly, physically hurt. What he wouldn't give to be there, where his surrogate family was, preparing for a wedding and dealing with explosions of estrogen and women crying over him and drinking—what was it?— _firewhiskey_ …

Harry put a hand to his chest at the miserable conclusion that the Burrow was, perhaps, literally within his reach, but that he could not go. He ran his fingers over the chain of his newly acquired necklace, sighing.

"It's just so stupid," Malfoy spat furiously. "No one tells me a goddamn thing around here! And why not? It's not like I'm about to run off and tell anyone, I can't even leave the house! I'm supposed to be dead! Seriously!"

Harry could not blame him for his outburst. He remembered all too well his own temper-tantrums from last year, in this very house, for very similar reasons. But he wasn't about to try and comfort Draco Malfoy. Draco huffed in the silence, glaring up at the sparkling portkey as though it was personally keeping its secrets from him itself—a riddle locked up in an intimate, silver enclosure. His next words were barely discernable when he spoke, muttered between tightly clenched teeth.

"Dead and in the dark."

* * *

That night, as Harry lay down to sleep, he tried to do as Snape instructed him and clear his mind.

Malfoy was already out, by the looks of it—or was at least pretending to be, which suited Harry just fine. He, however, lay completely awake on his somewhat small but cozy bed, happily dressed in his old, comfortable clothes. He had quickly learned that all of his shirts, which had been a bit big before, really, fit reasonably well now, but that his pants—every single pair—were now several inches too short. He really had experienced quite a growth spurt over the past year. Harry wondered vaguely if he could get Hermione or Ron to bring him some jeans that fit soon.

So he was currently pants-less, but, luckily, he had several pairs of comfy shorts, and really, what else did he need right now? It wasn't like he had anyone to impress with good fashion sense here, and it wasn't like he was going to leave the house.

…Ever.

Harry suppressed a sigh, trying and failing again and again to clear his thoughts. He was giving it his best efforts, really, but it was difficult to do when his mind kept wandering, burning with curiosity about a number of different things. He wondered how the preparations for the wedding were going; where that portkey went and if it was, in fact, the Burrow; and, deepest of all, what these mysterious, elusive things—weapons?—were that Ron and Hermione would begin searching for when the ceremony was finally over.

* * *

The parsletongue really was hypnotic.

Harry was right back in the cupboard again, enclosed in his dreary prison. It was infuriating, really, that he should be trapped here. He used to have power in his dreams. He used to have freedom—or the illusion of it, at least. But now the invasive Occlumency barriers prevented him from even that luxury. Harry was trapped in reality, trapped in his own mind, and, now, trapped in this horrid, recurring nightmare.

He had nothing. Lord Voldemort had successfully taken everything from him… and he didn't even think he was alive.

Harry sat on his cot with his head between his knees, trying to ignore the sultry sound of his voice. To not find it alluring or lovely or seductive—

_"…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…"_

Or to want to go to it and just drown in it…

_"….Harry Potter…"_

Or to find it so…

_"…Come to me…"_

…so…

_"….Precious soul…"_

Harry shook his head, snapping himself out of that trance-like state. It was horrible, feeling so inexplicably drawn to the lure of his former captor. And—far worse than that—feeling so…

 _Ugh._ Harry couldn't even think it without being disgusted with himself.

It wasn't fair! These weren't _his_ burning, coiled up emotions; they were his, and they were all because of this damn horcrux that was, supposedly, a part of him.

 _He's a monster,_ Harry thought sternly to himself. _He's a goddamn monster. He's done nothing but horrific, terrible things to me._

What he did was cruel.

_What he did was unforgiveable._

Time has made him unstable.

_He's a fucking psychopath._

He does not deserve you.

_He deserves to burn in hell._

I am nothing like him.

_Yeah, I'm nothing like him!_

_Oh God, I'm talking to myself,_ Harry thought morosely. He sighed as he sat up, staring vacantly at the shelves next to him which held dozens of broken toy soldiers, copious amounts of dust, and a network of intricate, delicate spider's webs. Talking to himself while being stuck in the closet… Wasn't life a dream?

Harry grit his teeth, attempting once more to focus with all of his might on emptying his mind.

_Clear your thoughts…_

Clear your thoughts…

_Clear your thoughts…_

Clear your thoughts…

He repeated this mantra to himself over and over, and, while the sultry sound never completely abated, it did diminish to the point that it was bearable. Just one long, continuous hissing note. A sickeningly seductive song to haunt the background of his nightmares.

And so Harry persevered through the night, pretending to be dead in the darkness of his dreams.

* * *

Harry was sure of very little in his life at the moment, but there was one fact that he knew with absolute certainty: If it were possible, he would reside under the flowing water of a hot shower the entire time he was at Grimmauld Place.

Really, he'd never appreciated before just how wonderful bathing felt. The warm air and the scorching water was pure bliss on his skin. He ran his hands through his hair, down his shoulders, and along his sides. He was rapidly becoming used to his new and improved body. Appreciating it, in fact—though he tried not to linger too much as to why he looked and felt like this. But he knew why; knew in a way that no one else could. He looked this way because the Dark Lord had considered him a thing, a thing which belonged to him… and Lord Voldemort expected and demanded nothing less than perfection when it came to his belongings, his followers, his…possessions.

_And I protect my possessions well._

Harry shuddered, willing away the memory of Voldemort's icy declaration in his dreamscape of endless white. Regardless of the disturbing reasoning, Harry was the way he was now, for better or worse. His hands trailed across his abs, up his chest, to—

The locket.

Harry’s fingers closed around the mysterious silver object as he pulled it away from him, up in front of his face so that he could examine it away from the stream of the hot water. It was strange. He'd taken it off for a moment before initially getting into the shower, but then the oddest thing had happened. It was like a bizarre inkling, a tugging sensation that pulled at him after he'd set it down on the side of the sink. He'd felt oddly… naked without it on.

Which was especially odd because he already _was_ naked at that point, as he'd just been about to rinse off—but this was different. Like the softest, coolest draft had swept up his spine. Like something was amiss when he no longer had the chain around his neck.

Experimentally, he'd put it back on… and the slight feeling of trepidation had vanished.

Probably charmed or something, Harry mused as he looked at it now, studying his own reflected green irises in the silver surface. Some kind of protective enchantment, maybe, to prevent its owners from losing it or misplacing it…

Well, he thought airily, surely it was not such a big deal if he kept it on. Maybe he was being a bit daft, but really, if wearing a silly locket made him feel even slightly better, given his circumstances—well, what was the harm in that? It was just a necklace.

Shrugging to himself, Harry let the heavy pendant slip from his hands. It thudded against his chest, once more under the flow of the warm water.

Eventually, he decided that he should probably get out of the bathroom. He'd been in here a long time and while he was sure Snape had his own in the master suite, he wasn't so sure that there was another one which Draco could use. He smirked, imagining Malfoy waiting outside the bathroom door, tapping his foot impatiently. The thought made him laugh.

Harry begrudgingly turned the water off, reaching for a towel and drying himself off. He looked at himself in the mirror before getting dressed, wiping off a section of the thick coat of condensation that had formed because of his exuberantly long shower. He was no longer shocked by his body, but did still feel slightly awkward about it.

His _possession_. Harry scowled at the memory of _his_ voice, his green eyes burning with anger.

"I am no one's possession," he muttered to himself.

Strangely enough, his reflection decided to answer him. _'I am nothing like him,'_ the Harry in the mirror said, his expression darkening further.

 _Odd,_ Harry thought—but he only shook his head, reaching for his clothes so that he could get dressed. He'd never really understood magical mirrors and their generally unasked-for comments.

Of course he was nothing like Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Malfoy was not waiting outside the bathroom door impatiently, much as the image had amused Harry in his imagination.

He was, in fact, in the kitchen. His hair, which was nearly always perfectly smooth and slicked back, was tousled from sleep, and he was still in his baggy sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Harry thought he looked much better like this—casual, not dressed up or preened in a way that was meant to impress and intimidate every person he came across. He yawned as he filled the kettle with water, about to make tea, and good God, Harry thought suddenly—Draco Malfoy really was just a normal person after all.

But the moment his steely gaze flickered up to meet Harry's, that haughty demeanor was back in a flash. His eyes narrowed, his spine straightened into much better posture, and he even ran a hand over his hair, probably absent-mindedly trying to make it sleek and pristine again. Harry had to try not to laugh.

"Good morning," Harry said lightly, grinning.

"Mph." Malfoy made a short, derisive noise in response. Harry got the impression that he, like Ron, did not do well with verbal communication when he first woke up.

He watched as Draco pulled down a single mug and a tea bag. "You know, common curtesy says you're supposed to offer tea to your guests, especially if you're already making some, anyway."

Draco glared. "Common curtesy says you're not supposed to spend forever in the shower, either, but that doesn’t stop you," he said. His words were spoken without their usual snappishness, and Harry's beliefs were confirmed—Malfoy did not yet have his wits about him. He smirked.

"I didn't know you were waiting," he said, shrugging as he reached into the cupboard to grab a cup for himself. "You could've knocked."

"Mph." Malfoy settled for making another unintelligible noise.

Harry did laugh, this time. "Incredible," he said, leaning against the counter as they waited for the water to boil. Draco raised an eyebrow at him. "You, and your inability to speak properly yet,” he said. “You remind me of Ron."

Malfoy's eyes twitched. "Don't compare me to Weasel."

"Weasel!" Harry said, grinning wider. "Do you have a nickname for everyone, Malfoy? What's mine?"

"Shut up, asshole," he mumbled irately.

"Is that my nickname, or are you just being friendly?"

"I'm going to pour this boiling water over your head."

"Threatening my well-being? I wouldn't if I were you, it might ruffle my feathers, I'd have to tell Snape—"

"That's Professor Snape, to you."

They both jumped at the sudden appearance of the Potions Master. If he kept up such arrivals for the entirety of their shared living experience, Harry thought, he may just die from a heart attack at some point.

Probably wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to him, either.

"Good morning," Snape said, clearly noting—and enjoying—the fact that he had startled the daylights out of them.

The kettle started whistling. Harry poured a cup and, after a moment of awkward trepidation, offered it to the older man.

"Tea…?"

Snape stared at the mug being handed to him by Harry Potter as though he thought it might come to life and bite his hand off.

Harry faltered, and was just about to take it back and—what, apologize?—when Snape surprised him by taking it. He didn't say thank you, but he nodded in curt, uncomfortable way. Harry turned away at once as though he were retreating from a battle, busying himself with getting another cup to make himself a drink. Malfoy sat at the table, looking altogether too tired to give a damn about much of anything.

Harry still had his back turned when Snape spoke next. "Did you practice Occlumency last night, as I instructed you?"

Harry froze with his hands around the handle of another cup he'd been reaching for. From the corner of his eye, he could tell that Malfoy had perked up. "Er… yeah," Harry said. He didn't turn around, not wanting to directly face either of them. "I did.” He poured the hot water into his cup.

A stretch of silence. Harry stared down into the contents of his mug as the tea steeped as though it were the most mesmerizing thing in the world.

"…And?" Snape prodded. Harry bit his lower lip, still resolutely with his back turned, and damn it, damn it all, he hated having these conversations, hated the way that even thinking about his dreams twisted his stomach into not-entirely-but-yes-entirely horrible knots.

"Was it successful? Did the parsletongue diminish?"

Harry noted Malfoy shifting again, but he'd lowered his head and was drinking his tea quietly—like he was hoping to go unnoticed at the table so as not to be kicked out again. Harry scowled.

"Yep," he said shortly. "Sure did. Didn't hear a thing." Harry turned around finally to face Snape, and while did not look up he he could _feel_ those sinister eyes boring down on him. Harry twitched, resisting the urge to scratch at his head.

"… _Really_."

Snape said it more as an accusation than a question. Harry only nodded, wanting this conversation to end. He glanced up, deciding to change the subject. "Um, Professor?" he began, "I was wondering, if I can know… What's the elder wand? And why does it matter?"

It was one of the many questions that had prevented him from being able to empty his mind last night. The unknown reasoning as to why Draco Malfoy had to 'die'.

Snape's head cocked slightly to one side, and Harry was certain that he knew he was just trying to get him to stop asking about parsletongue dreams… But, to Harry's happy surprise, he decided to indulge him.

"The Elder Wand," Snape began in a tone of voice that reminded Harry so much of the way he used to lecture in class that he felt a rush of nostalgia (he never would have thought he'd feel nostalgic about Potions class!), "is an extremely powerful wand, the most powerful in the world, supposedly. Most believe it only exists as a legend, a myth—an interesting, tall tale of bloodshed and nothing more. I did not believe it was real myself until very recently. But it is, and its history can be traced for a substantial period of history, up through the Middle Ages, in fact… Do you know much about wandlore?"

Snape asked the question in a condescending tone, as if he knew very well that Harry didn't know anything about wandlore at all but wanted to hear him admit it.

"No, sir," Harry murmured. Snape continued.

"Wands and their magical properties tend to be drawn to certain personalities. You can tell a great deal about a wizard or witch by their wand… and so these wands can develop loyalties. And, like all entities with the ability to willingly give devotion, they can be swayed. Won. Their allegiances swapped."

Harry swallowed, wondering is Snape realized that he had pretty much just described himself.

"But most wands must be won fairly," he continued. "It isn't generally easy to gain the allegiance of a wand from a previous master. Simply disarming an opponent or beating them in a duel won't necessarily win you its devotion. The exception, however, is the Elder Wand."

Draco shifted again, this time obviously uncomfortably. "What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"The Elder Wand, otherwise known as the Deathstick by many, has a notorious history of having been won many, many times. Past wizards who won it tended to be… stupid, for lack of a better term. They boasted about their wielding of such a powerful, magical artifact, and, consequently, would attract attention of the worst variety. Others who wanted the legendary wand would inevitably kill them and take it."

"Kill them?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Snape said, nodding. "Though killing is not necessary… the Elder Wand is very easily swayed. It recognizes power and only power—it has no true loyalties, no honest devotion."

Harry swallowed thickly again, wondering if this time Snape realized he had pretty much just described the Dark Lord. "So how did Malfoy become the Master of it? How'd you even find out where it was?"

"Dumbledore had it." Harry turned, surprised that Draco had interrupted. "I was—the Dark Lord ordered me to kill Dumbledore, a-and I—" he seemed to lose his nerve, then, and stuttered to a halt.

"And he did not," Snape finished for him. "He did, however, disarm him. And that action alone is enough for the Elder Wand to swap allegiances. The Headmaster was weak at the time, dying. And so the moment Draco disarmed him, he unwittingly became the Master of the Elder Wand… despite the fact that he has never so much as touched it."

Draco looked incredibly miserable at that statement.

"So…you're the Master of the Elder Wand. Did you-know-who know that?"

"He didn't at first, but he is sure to figure it out eventually…" Snape sighed, looking worn and conflicted. "The only reason I knew about the wand at all was because the Headmaster told me. Before he died, he'd informed me that, someday, the Dark Lord would more than likely become very interested in this legendary weapon, and that when he did, he would trace it to his wand…"

He paused, setting his half-drunk tea down on the counter.

"What happened the?" Harry asked apprehensively.

"He did become interested in the wand, for a time," Snape said, sounding bitter. "Apparently, he had been researching the artifact ever since your wands connected in the graveyard when he first regained a corporal form. But his fascination with it waned, significantly, when you supposedly went missing."

Snape looked angry. Harry didn't say anything, only waited patiently for him to go on. "…Of course, in hindsight, I should have been suspicious. I should have been more concerned. But I, like the rest of the wizarding world, believed that no one knew where you were…" He looked down towards the floor for a moment, and Harry felt a wave of shock. Was this Snape looking… apologetic?

But the fleeting expression was gone when he looked up again, replaced once more with bitter contempt. "And then, for a very long time, he became strangely… absent. He was no longer interested in the Elder Wand, less involved with his political propaganda than he had ever been before… He was, for the first time, rather willing to delegate most matters onto others. He was gone often, and even when he was present at meetings or other events, he seemed… distracted. It was all most odd. I had assumed he was looking for you, but now that I know that was not the case, it is still somewhat of a mystery… Where he was going, what he was doing…"

Harry coughed suddenly, choking on his tea. For he had just had several rapid, lightning-fast images flash through his mind—Voldemort, standing in Madam Puddifoot's coffee shop while he watched Harry kiss a blushing Cho Chang; Voldemort, looking young and suave and handsome at the Yule Ball, stalking him as he made his way to the Room of Requirement; Voldemort, listening to him play the piano with a hungry, murderous, nearly mad glint in his eyes—

_'You're obsessed with me, Tom.'_

Harry could feel both Snape's and Malfoy's gazes fixed on him as he tried to clear his throat, spluttering. His face was on fire.

"You don't say," he muttered feebly in a voice that was about three octaves too high.

Snape had just opened his mouth to ask—or, more likely, demand—what it was Harry knew, when a beautiful distraction appeared.

A vibrantly bright, shining creature came gamboling in through the door to the kitchen, and Harry smiled, recognizing it at once. It was Hermione's patronus, a happy, delightful otter. It swirled around in the open air as though it were swimming; its sleek body contorted gracefully as it made its way towards them. Harry’s grin broadened.

But one look at Snape's face crushed that feeling of positivity at once. For the Potions Master's features had turned ashen upon the arrival of the glowing creature, and Harry had never seen him look so fearful. Harry jumped at the unexpected sound of Hermione's voice, which filled the room as though she was standing right next to them. Her tone was spoken in a business-like fashion, the way in which Hermione usually recited words she'd memorized from textbooks—but there was an undeniable edge of panic present, too. Like someone in a state of severe shock.

"The Ministry has fallen. The Burrow was attacked by Death Eaters. Will report back as soon as possible."

And then, with one last playful, gamboling swirl, which was so at odds with the message it had just relayed, the Patronus vanished, leaving the room irrationally dim and bleak at its absence. The three supposedly dead men exchanged looks of fear after it had gone, struck silent at the implication of those words and the terrible vagueness of them.


	9. Riddle, Riddle, Riddle

The day passed in taut, tense silence.

Snape dismissed himself once the patronus vanished, retreating to his room to do whatever it was that Snape did in his copious amounts of solitude. Harry and Draco were left alone.

They didn't speak to each other. They didn't need to. Harry, who had never known that patronuses could even be used for sending messages like that, had come to the conclusion quietly and on his own.

For the first time, Harry and Draco remained in the same room together without feeling the urge to verbally abuse each other. They were both frightened and anxious, lost in their own torrid thoughts and worries which remained unspoken. And despite—or perhaps it was because of—those horrible feelings, they were thankful to simply not be alone.

Harry tried once more to play the piano to distract himself, but all he managed to achieve for his efforts was an increase in that irritating sensation of his already uncomfortable thoughts. Frustrated, he gave up after only a few minutes, and instead attempted to read like Malfoy had decided to do. But he found that task impossible too. Harry opened a book, and, even though he scanned the text in the appropriate orientation, he did not take in a single word of it. His gaze ghosted over the letters sequentially in a vacant, empty way. There were whole worlds in which he could have been lost, in those pages, but Harry remained firmly within the confines of his own, troubled mind.

They didn't eat. They didn't do anything, other than pretend. Harry could not even entertain the idea of practicing Occlumency now; the very notion of clearing his thoughts was incomprehensible, much as he wished it could be so. He _wished_ he could escape from his speculations. He wished he could let his worries and fears slip through his fingers like water and be left cool and calm and empty and numb.

He _had_ been numb... More than once.

After Sirius died.

After being trapped in that confinement for…

For…

How long?

How long had he been awake? How many days? Weeks? _Months?_ Harry wondered.

How long? _How long?_

Harry glanced up at the clock on the wall of the front room where he and Draco currently resided, stared at it, eyes fixated on the second hand as it ticked, ticked, ticked, every second taking them closer to midnight. How long? How long would he wait? How long had he already waited? How long in that world of just white, nothing but blank, vivid brightness, going on forever, endless, all-consuming and how long had he remained awake and alive in that glass casket with nothing but his own screams in his ears of that name and how long, how long, _how long?_

Harry’s pulse race and the second hand was moving so, so slow and how long, how long, _how long?_ He was gasping for breath and his throat was constricting and his heart was thundering wildly and quickly and spastic and he put a hand to his chest to feel it there like a hammer against his ribs; it beat against the thick fabric of his sweater, against the warm metal of the locket, against his trembling fingers and how long, how long in that world of white, aware and awake and alive with just white and white and white and—

_Breathe._

Harry wasn't sure what happened—he only knew that one moment, he had been sitting idly on the couch, looking up at the clock, and the next he was quivering and gasping for breath, doubled over with his head between his knees, and… Draco was standing over him, looking panicked and worried, and it was such a strange expression to see there on his pointed face—so odd, so out of place—

And just as Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, a cracking sound startled them both. Their heads snapped to the side in unison as the front door swung open.

Ron and Hermione came bustling in. They were both wearing dress robes that were disheveled, and while they looked breathless and ashen, they appeared otherwise unharmed.

Harry was on his feet at once, his heart still beating rapidly. He crossed the room in two long strides and pulled both of them into a giant embrace which they returned at once. The sight of his friend's arrival had whisked him away from the precipice of a full-blown panic attack, had saved him like a patronus appearing at the very last moment before his soul was swallowed by a dementor's kiss.

"I was—we've been—" Harry mumbled into Hermione's shoulder, his thoughts and words a jumbled mess. She patted his shoulder soothingly as he stepped away. "Is everyone okay? Did anyone…?"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Ron interjected at once. "No," he said quickly. "No, no one's died…"

Yet the way his voice trailed off was extremely ominous.

"What happened?"

They all turned to see Snape, who must have come in at the sound of their arrival. He stood next to Malfoy, who, Harry now realized, looked incredibly uncomfortable and awkward. For a moment he didn't understand why, but then it hit him—he, Ron, and Hermione had been having a sort of moment; a friendly exchange met with a rush a relief that he, Draco Malfoy, was quite ostentatiously not a part of.

Harry felt slightly… Well. He pitied Draco, that he did not have friends like Ron and Hermione.

"Death Eaters," Hermione said, and it was that semi-rehearsed tone of voice again with which she spoke. "We only made it out at all because we received a warning from Kinglsey. It was just moments before the wards broke, but if we hadn't had those precious few seconds…"

She shuddered. Ron grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly… and Harry noticed that he did not let go.

"No one died," Ron reiterated. "But there were injuries…" Harry's heart, which had been so frantically beating just a moment before, froze in his chest.

"George was hit with a pretty nasty curse," Hermione said quietly. "His leg—something awful, they're not sure what it was yet, some seriously dark magic—he's okay, but… but we d-don't yet know…"

Ron's face paled significantly.

"And Ginny," Hermione went on. "She was hexed quite badly too, but nothing that should have lasting effects…"

"She'll be okay?" Harry asked in a raspy voice. "Everyone… everyone is alive, and they should be okay…?"

Ron nodded, and the relief that swept over Harry was so strong that he felt light-headed. The intangible yet forceful weight of fear which had hung so heavy in the air moments before vanished, dissipated and was gone.

Harry could breathe again.

Ron looked on the verge of saying something when, quite suddenly, Snape motioned towards him and Hermione in a snappish gesture. "You two, with me," he said briskly as he turned to leave the room. He clearly expected them to follow at once, for he did not wait for a moment. Ron instantly frowned, looking unwilling to leave the room—or Harry—alone with Malfoy again so quickly, but Hermione prodded him.

"We should, he'll want to—" She paused and glanced at Harry apologetically. "I'm sorry, we won't be long, just—"

Harry forced a grin, still feeling slightly dizzy from the confirmation that everyone was alive. "Go on," he said. "Before he comes back and decides to hit Ron with another stinging hex or something for making him wait two seconds."

Ron smirked solemnly but nodded. "That prat… Okay, we'll be fast. I hope."

Hermione squeezed his shoulder one last time before turning to follow the impatient Potions Master. Her hand slipped from Ron's grasp as she briskly walked down the hall. Even though she was dressed in clingy, disheveled dress robes and heels, her gait reminded Harry of someone on their way to a business meeting, or a formal, educational lecture, perhaps. Ron, however, went slowly and sluggishly, like each step was causing him pain… as if he were being forced to attend that same lecture, Harry thought shrewdly.

He and Draco were once more left alone in the front room. Neither of them was included in these meetings, forbidden from knowing what it was precisely they were discussing in relation to this 'mission'… and there was, undeniably, a sort of kinship there.

Not that either of them was about to admit that.

Draco straightened his posture and fussed with his hair again at the look on Harry's face. Had it been pitying? Had he, Harry, just looked at Malfoy with the same expression that Hermione so often fixed on him? He felt another twinge of guilt as Draco cleared his throat, obviously trying to regain his typical demeanor.

Harry shook his head. He scanned the room, looking for something to say or do; some kind of distraction. His gaze landed on the table near the couch. He motioned at it with one hand while the other scratched at the back of his head awkwardly.

"…Chess?" Harry offered up.

He half-expected Malfoy to scoff at him, to pick up his book and disappear behind the binding again—but he didn't. His grey eyes lingered on the pieces of Ron's set, flickering back and forth between it and Harry a bit skeptically, but then he shrugged lazily as if to say 'Sure, why not?'. He sat down on one side of the board, claiming the black pieces without asking what Harry preferred as he ushered them into place.

Harry sat across from him. The white pieces recognized him, and while he had led them to brutal defeats many, many times, they did not look quite so disheartened at the moment. Perhaps because they did not recognize Draco Malfoy, and so maybe, they mused, they stood a chance against this unknown entity.

The black pieces seemed wary too. Their little marble faces peered up at the blonde suspiciously, so used to their undefeated, redheaded master and clearly quite skeptical at being under the rule of someone new and potentially untalented.

But Draco didn't pay their disrespectful behavior any mind. He leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, crossing his arms as he watched Harry finish prodding his pawns into formation on the front line.

"As always," Malfoy drawled, his steely gaze regaining some of that coy mischievousness that Harry was so accustomed to, "…white moves first."

Harry moved the first piece out into the field, and the game began.

Neither of them mentioned his near panic attack.

* * *

As it turned out, Harry was much more evenly matched at chess with the Slytherin than he was with Ron, and it made for a much more intense game.

They were neck in neck in terms of pieces, a nearly equal number resided on the outskirts of the board. The chipped, beaten, and dismissed soldiers watched from the sidelines as miniature spectators, making lewd gestures at each other and waving their arms in excitement—or annoyance—as Draco and Harry moved the still active pieces around the board.

They were both leaning forward now, completely absorbed. Their gazes would spend as much time scrutinizing each other as they would examining the pieces, trying to decipher what it was their opponent was thinking of doing next.

Malfoy had surprised Harry more than once. He'd assumed that Draco would play in a more defensive way, but the Slytherin was quite assertive and bold when it came to claiming pieces. He rarely passed up an opportunity to capture one, which had resulted in Harry unwittingly losing his first rook, but which he had used to his advantage later. He'd set up an intricate trap with several of his pawns and a bishop which had enabled him to lay claim to two of Draco's knights, one right after the other.

The game had shifted then. Before Harry's tricky and successful move, they had been playing somewhat lazily—it was just something to do while they waited for Ron, Hermione, and Snape to re-emerge.

After that, it had become a _war_. A battle of wits and intellect, and it seemed that the fate of the universe rested solely on the outcome of this game of chess.

It was Harry's move. His hand hovered over a pawn with trepidation—one of his last ones—as he glanced up at Draco's face. It was completely still, expressionless, but his gray eyes were smoldering. As he moved his hand over his knight instead, Draco’s lip twitched—an ill-concealed smirk. Like he was saying:

_I dare you._

Harry hesitated, then moved the knight.

Draco countered by moving his last rook, claiming it; Harry's last knight, gone. The dismissed white pieces stomped their feet angrily, shooting Draco rude, disrespectful gestures that they must have learned from Ron at some point.

Draco looked triumphant—clearly victory was within his grasp!—and it was at that moment that Ron and Hermione entered the room again. Neither player looked up. They continued to stare at each other, Draco looking smug and superior while Harry resolutely kept his face blank. Hermione drew a breath in as if to say something and interrupt, but Ron put a hand up to silence her.

Never before had Ron seen his chess set in a state like this. It was always very one-sided when he played, such a blood-bath. But now, for the first time, his pieces were so closely matched that they looked on the verge of storming across the board and murdering each other—the actual game of chess be damned.

Ron sunk into a seated position next to Malfoy, grinning in excitement. Harry could practically hear his whirling thoughts, but he kept his mouth shut as he stared hungrily at the board's current layout. Hermione rolled her eyes at them all, but she sat down as well, saying nothing.

Harry swiftly returned his attention to the game. His King was in danger, that was true, though it was not yet in check… and Draco must have been anticipating only one move for Harry now, one possible outcome—for he had fixated so intently on trapping him, his attention drawn to Harry's King, which Harry had purposefully left isolated on one side of the board, looking vulnerable and weak without a wall of pawns in front of it…

But Draco had missed completely what he was plotting elsewhere. Harry moved not his King, to get it a step away from what looked like imminent danger, but a pawn which had been waiting on the other side of the board and which had remained stationary for a long time. Malfoy must have forgotten about it—but now Harry could move it to the other end, finally able to safely place it on the opposite side of the board and promote it without being immediately captured by that pesky rook.

"A Queen," Harry said softly, and the pawn bowed itself from the board. It ran to the happy jubilation of its fallen white comrades, and Harry's Queen, which Malfoy had taken earlier (brutally so), stood tall and majestic. The other white pieces knelt before her as she preened, strutting like a Goddess as she reclaimed her position on the board, back in the game, back from the dead.

Draco stared. Ron grinned widely.

"Check."

The game was over, even if Malfoy was unwilling to admit it quite yet. But there was nothing he could do. With Harry's Queen back in play, he was outmatched. Three moves later and the vengeful white woman towered above his Black King, haughty and superior as she waited for his surrender.

"Mate," Harry muttered.

For a flicker of a moment, he thought that Draco was going to be angry—that he would flip the board upside down and send the pieces flying across the room in a tantrum. But he surprised all of them by smiling.

"Damn," he said instead, oddly casual as he accepted defeat far more gracefully than Harry would have expected. The Black King, who was so accustomed to winning, looked up at Ron as though he were waiting for his usual master to swoop in and save him and his diminished army.

Ron chuckled at his tiny, animate chess piece. "Sorry, mate," he said fondly. "But all's fair in love and war… and you lost this round."

The Black King turned its attention back to the White Queen, who, in great contrast, had never won a single match as far as Harry knew. She pointed down towards the ground, her head held high and her chin jutted out defiantly. In an almost trance-like state, the Black King fell to his knees, placing his crown at her feet.

The white pieces began dancing in raucous celebration. The black ones made the same rude gestures at Draco that the white ones had earlier.

"You have the most animated chess set I've ever seen, Weasley," Malfoy muttered, watching as a few of the pawns began to swing at each other—the blatant beginnings of an all-out brawl.

"Oi—stop that!" Ron commanded, and the pieces sulkily lowered their fists. “Yeah, I know. What can I say, they take after me— bless them—"

Hermione rolled her eyes again, murmuring something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like 'boys'. She undid the clasps around her ankles, pulling off her heels and setting them on the floor at her side. "Where is he?" she muttered irritably, her eyes darting towards the door. "He said he would be right with us…"

"Dunno. Fancy another round, Evans? I think my set wants revenge. Shove over, Malfoy." Ron was looking greedily down at his black pieces, who were all nodding vehemently at his words.

"Oh, no, I know what he's up to—I'm going to go get him." Hermione stood, marching barefoot from the room with a fiery determination about her. Ron's expression wavered.

Harry watched her go, confused. "What's gotten into her?" he asked. Draco looking equally curious.

"Uh… Well…" Ron faltered uneasily. Harry got the impression again that he was never really certain of what he was or was not allowed to say, and so he generally just chose not to speak at all. "I think you're about to find out."

Hermione returned a few moments later, proceeded by a very sour, sallow looking Snape. Harry's eyes widened in shock. Had Hermione Granger just marched the Potions Master into the room like a stubborn child who had misbehaved?

Surely not, but the way that Hermione raised an eyebrow at him and tapped her foot impatiently seemed to indicate otherwise. Amazingly, at this action, Snape began speaking—though his expression did become significantly darker. He looked at Harry with gloomy eyes. The three boys on the sofa returned his gaze warily, waiting.

"Before he died," the older wizard began disdainfully, "the Headmaster instructed me to give you something… Evans." His annoyed expression did that weird, conflicted thing again when he said the last bit. Harry grew more nervous. Whatever in was Snape was about to say or do, it was painfully obvious that it had been a serious point of contention between him, Hermione and Ron.

"Er… yeah?" Harry said anxiously. “He did?”

Hermione continued to fix the older man with that accusatory glower. But Snape didn't look at her again. Instead, he reached into his inner robe pocket, and revealed to them the strangest, most bizarre thing. Harry gawked at it.

"Is that… is that a snitch?"

It was. A tiny, glittering globe of gold was in his hand, its wings contracted tightly to its sides.

"Yes," Snape answered, and every single thing about his body language made it clear that he had not wanted to tell Harry about it, nor did he want to give it to him now. "This is the snitch that you caught in your very first match as Seeker for Gryffindor."

He glared at the glittering orb as it he thought it the most offensive object in all of existence. "Why would the Headmaster want you to have such a thing?"

Snape's voice was barely a whisper when he said it, dangerously low and accusatory.

"I… I've no idea," Harry responded honestly.

And then Harry thought he understood Snape’s resentment. He must have had this thing for a long time, and it bothered him immensely that he did not comprehend its meaning. Clearly, Dumbledore had not told him _why_ Harry should have this snitch, and Snape was loathe to hand it over to him without understanding the exact reasoning first.

"Well?" Hermione prodded again, her tone sharp. She and Snape exchanged irate glares, and Harry was simply amazed—she did not back down at all. In fact, she jutted her chin out defiantly, much like his White Queen had moments ago.

"You said you'd give it to him now, sir."

Harry's lip twitched. Leave it to Hermione to still comply with respectful formalities, no matter the circumstances. Snape looked like he very badly wanted to strike her.

"You see, Evans," Hermione said, her features softening significantly when she looked at him, "snitches have something called flesh memory. They remember the first person to touch them, in case of a dispute in a match…"

Harry couldn't help but appreciate that Hermione knew something that he didn't about Quidditch, of all things. He nodded.

"So, this one will remember you."

“Yeah?" Harry said.

"It should. So… let's see if it does."

There was a fraction of a moment where Snape looked like he was going to change his mind, to shove it back in his pocket and leave… But instead, most reluctantly, he extended his arm in Harry's direction.

Harry wasn't sure why he felt so nervous about this interaction. Was something significant going to happen when he touched it? Was that a bad thing or a good thing? Should he be worried? But he didn't see any other option but to take it…

Harry stood, and the room seemed to come to a standstill as he held out his open palm. Snape dropped it into his hand. Everyone held their breath.

…Nothing happened.

It was very anti-climactic. Harry examined the golden ball, its wings fluttering out docilely at its sides as if in greeting. He grinned, tossing it slightly in the air, almost laughing as it became suspended there, flying. He noticed Draco out of the corner of his eye, his hand twitching involuntarily at the presence of an active snitch, and perhaps old habits really did run deep, because Harry instantly snatched it back out of the air, unable to stop himself from capturing it while in such close proximity of the ex-Slytherin Seeker.

Smiling even broader, Harry released it again, and this time it tried to zoom away—but again he caught it, and it was rather fun, really, letting the snitch get a few inches away before deftly catching it again. Draco was on his feet now, watching the glittering orb with a hungry gleam in his eyes, rather like a cat watching a dangling piece of string. Harry released it and caught it again, and again, and again, his smirk growing ever wider—

But then he noticed the look on Snape's face and felt his heart skip a beat. For whatever reason, the sight of Harry playing with the Snitch like that had made the older wizard look absolutely murderous. Snape glowered so lethally that Harry seriously thought an Unforgivable was about to come his way, after all.

He stopped at once, holding the struggling snitch firmly in his grasp the next time he caught it. Draco looking disappointed; his body was poised as if he had just been on the verge of trying to intercept and steal it for himself.

"I’m s—" Harry was just about to apologize, for what, he didn't even know, but it was obvious that Snape was immensely furious. And then he remembered, with a sickening jolt, the memory—Snape's memory—and how very much like his father he must have looked, just then.

"Why would the Headmaster want to give you a snitch, boy?" Snape spat, a vein protruding so prominently on his neck that it looked likely to burst. Harry’s stomach sank. He was back to being 'boy' again, then.

"I don't know!" he repeated. And he really, really didn't.

A long, tense moment followed in which Harry barely dared to breathe for fear that Snape might rip his head off. Hermione sighed, breaking the spell of hostility with such a casual, forlorn sound. "Well, that's a pity," she murmured. "I thought for sure something would happen when you touched it, Evans; I was certain that the flesh memory would activate something, tell us _something_ …"

"Maybe there really was no real reason for it," Ron offered up, shrugging. "Maybe Dumbledore really did just leave it for him for nostalgia…"

But as Ron spoke, Harry was looking at the golden sphere curiously, thinking. The first snitch he'd ever caught… Flesh memory… Perhaps the reason it hadn't reacted was because… Well…

His eyes flickered up to the furious looking Snape again. He was about to say it, to voice his musings aloud, when—

_No._

_No,_ he thought bitterly, meeting that angry glower, suddenly feeling annoyed by it rather than intimidated.

_This secret is mine._

Hermione sighed again. "Maybe… Well, that's one less riddle to worry about at the moment, at any rate." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. Her eyes scanned it quickly before she nodded. "Right. Evans," she said curtly. "I… We need you to do something for us."

Harry took a step towards her, looking at the paper curiously—but Hermione instantly retracted, holding the parchment tightly to her chest so that he couldn't read it. "Sorry," she said tensely. "But this is one of those things…"

Harry held his hands up defensively, the struggling snitch still in one fist. "Sheesh—okay, sorry. What is it, then?"

She hesitated for a second, her gaze flickering upwards. "We… Well, we need you to order Kreacher to talk to us."

Harry's blood ran cold. _Kreacher._ He had completely forgotten about the old elf, who he had ordered to do lines. He felt an intense rush of guilt, and, admittedly, extreme worry—Hermione would kill him if she found out.

"Kreacher?" he asked in a strained voice.

But Hermione didn't seem to notice his apprehension. "Yes," she responded, looking resolute. "I need you to command him to talk to us, to answer all of our questions, and…" She looked very guilty, suddenly, when she added:

"And I need you to command him not to tell anyone what we've discussed after we're done. To not tell _you_ what we've talked about."

"What?" Harry balked.

Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, but her expression remained stiff and unwavering. "Yes. I'm sorry, but, again… It's just—"

"One of those things you can't tell me about until it's safe," Harry finished for her, muttering. She nodded. "I take it you can't even tell me what it's _about_?" he asked, though he already knew the answer by the look on her face.

She shook her head. "I really can't. I'm sorry," she said, and she did sound genuinely unhappy about it.

Harry sighed, defeated. "Okay," he said, shoving the snitch in his pocket. "Fine. I'll go… I'll go tell him now."

He took off for the attic, hoping that they would not immediately follow him, but Hermione was on his heels at once. Apparently, she did not believe him enough to follow her instructions on his own. Harry frowned at her over his shoulder.

"You really don't trust me, do you?" he muttered as they began ascending the staircase. He could hear more footsteps behind them, presumably Ron and Snape—would Draco try and follow, too? —but Hermione didn't look abashed at all.

"I'm sorry, of course I trust you, it's just—this is very, very important."

"What could Kreacher possibly know that would help you?" Harry mumbled, but Hermione, of course, didn't answer; she merely narrowed her eyes at him.

"Fine, fine," he said, exasperated. They arrived at the top-most level of the house, directly underneath the entrance to the attic. Harry cleared his throat, and a moment later Ron and Snape (still looking exceptionally malevolent) were behind him as well, waiting.

"Um, Kreacher?" Harry called up. "I—er—I order you to stop whatever, um, crazy thing you're doing, and sit in the middle of the room and stay there. Some of my… friends—" He glanced warily at Snape, and it was even weirder than his previous out-of-body experiences to be grouping the Potions Master together with Ron and Hermione, for any reason —"are going to come up there, and they're going to ask you some questions. I order you to answer them all."

He paused, and Hermione's glare had the astonishing ability to make him feel insignificant. Harry could suddenly appreciate how she had gotten Snape to listen to her, and was she certain she wasn't part basilisk, after all?

"…And I order you not to repeat anything that you talk to them about." Another angry flash in Hermione's narrowed, brown eyes."Even to me," he added bitterly.

The fiery expression on Hermione's face melted away at once, as though it had never been there at all. "Thank you," she said softly. She then stepped aside, and the motion made it obvious that she expected him to go back downstairs.

"We'll come down when we're done," she said, to further reiterate this fact. Harry scoffed. The only reason he didn't say or do anything to argue was because he would have reminded himself too much of Malfoy. That, and he knew it was pointless anyway.

"Fine," he said instead. He headed downstairs without looking at any of them, the sound of a spell being cast and the attic door swinging open issuing behind him.

What information could they possibly try and glean from Kreacher? Harry bit his lower lip, wondering, but he could think of nothing that a batty, old house-elf could possibly know... Unless, perhaps, he had learned something when he'd been reporting to Bellatrix Lestrange… Maybe he had gathered some useful, critical information when he'd served her, that foul woman, that bitch who—

Harry was so lost in his suddenly furious train of thought that he walked straight into Malfoy, who was standing in the doorway of the front room. Harry scowled, snapping at him at once.

"Hey, watch—"

"Your mouth."

"—it! Er, what?"

Harry was completely caught off guard—both by Malfoy's words and his leery, pretentious body language. It was like he had been waiting in that entryway for Harry to reappear, poised and ready like the snake that he was.

"You caught that snitch with your mouth, not your hands," he said, smirking.

 _Damn,_ Harry thought bitterly—he'd thought he would be able to keep this knowledge to himself, but of course Malfoy would remember that Harry had (arguably) accidently won his first match by almost swallowing the snitch. Draco himself had later made fun of him for nearly choking on it.

Harry ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to decide what to say next. Malfoy's eyes were practically iridescent with eagerness.

"So put it in your mouth already, Evans."

Harry warily considered him.

"We're not telling Snape."

Draco grinned, gleeful.

"Agreed."

Having come to a speedy understanding, they rushed to their shared room, shutting the door behind them. Harry pulled the snitch out of his pocket as Draco stared in anticipation, still grinning, because for once it was the two of them on the verge of discovering something, leaving the others in the dark. Harry put the snitch to his lips, his breath warm against the smooth, golden surface.

They waited. Harry and Draco stared at the snitch with wide eyes, completely still.

_'I open at the close.'_

Thin, elegant script, and Harry recognized it at once as Dumbledore's. It disappeared nearly the moment he'd read it.The two glanced up at each other, looking elatedly justified that they had been right, that there _was_ a hidden message.

"I open at the close," they said at the same time in matching tones of astonishment.

"What's it mean?" Draco asked breathlessly.

A pause.

"…I…" Harry started, his mind reeling. Draco watched him, looking highly expectant. "…I… I've no clue."

…Silence.

"What?" Malfoy snapped, suddenly and extremely annoyed. "What do you mean, you've no clue? It's a message Dumbledore left for _you!_ "

But Harry just blinked, putting the snitch to his lips again so he could re-read the message. Yet seeing that script again did nothing to illuminate him.

"I've no clue," he repeated blankly. "None at all."

Malfoy, who had seemed so happy a moment before, now looked monumentally sour.

"…I open at the close… I _open_ at the close… I open at the _close_ …"

No matter how he said it, no matter what tone of inflection he used, Harry could not force this statement to make any sense.

Unless… But no…

"The close of what?" Draco murmured, sounding aggravated as Harry let the snitch slip from his grasp. It fluttered about the room innocently—calmly now, as it was not currently being snatched at.

"I dunno," Harry said in a low tenor. But he had a sick, twisted feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him feel like somewhere, deep, deep down…

He might just know after all.

They sat in silence, watching the snitch fly around while they thought independently, musing over what it could possibly mean. It was sort of hypnotic, the way the little ball fluttered in lazy circles…

"We're not telling any of them," Harry eventually said, resolutely breaking the silence. Draco looked surprised at his declaration—he must have assumed that the valiant Gryffindor would want to at least tell Ron and Hermione of this discovery—but he looked genuinely pleased at the prospect that this was a secret to which only the two of them would be privy.

"Evans?"

Hermione's voice snapped them out of their reverie. Harry grabbed the snitch deftly from the air, putting it in his pocket again. He went out to meet them with Malfoy trailing behind. She looked a bit startled when she saw Harry coming out of a bedroom, having apparently been in there alone with Malfoy, but she didn't comment on it.

"How'd it go?" Harry inquired lightly, wondering if she would even deign the question with a response.

She looked crestfallen. "Not well," she admitted solemnly. "He didn't seem to know anything…"

"That elf is completely mental," Ron said in a much more aggressive voice. " _Mental_. He's lost his mind completely."

Hermione glowered but didn't argue the point. Snape never rejoined them at all.

And while Harry knew it was childish, knew that he should want nothing but success for his friends and their mission—his mission?—Harry couldn't really feel bad that they didn't get whatever useful information they were hoping to glean from Kreacher.

Misery truly does enjoy company, after all.

"Sorry to hear that," Harry said, trying to sound as forlorn as he knew he should.

Ron just shrugged. "Back to the drawing board for us, then. But we should go, we said we'd be back soon to how George is doing, and Ginny…"

Harry nodded understandably; if he were Ron, he wouldn't have even been away from them this long.

"But we'll check back here as soon as we can, of course," Hermione added quickly.

"Right," Harry nodded. "Right. I just—I hope—"

He trailed off dismally, unsure of how to translate his thoughts into words.

He didn't need to. They understood.

"Oh—before we go, I almost forgot—but I didn't want to give it to you in front of Snape, in case he thought we told someone something…" Ron reached into his inner coat pocket, pulling something out that shocked Harry even more than the sight of the golden snitch.

It was a sunflower.

A bit smashed up from being in his robe all day, and missing quite a few petals, but there it was—a vibrantly bright, yellow sunflower. Harry stared at it in astonishment.

"Luna." He breathed the name instantaneously, like he was murmuring a prayer.

Ron's eyebrows shot up so high on his head they disappeared under his bangs. "How'd you know?" he asked, totally perplexed. "It was the weirdest thing! Luna Lovegood, she was at the wedding, and, before the attack—she's fine, she's fine!—but she gave this to me, and I swear to God, we haven't told anyone about you, no one, but Luna—it's like she just _knew!"_ He looked at the sunflower dubiously. "She was wearing this in her hair, and she just—she waltzes up to me during the reception, and says, 'this is for you-know-who.'"

Ron handed it over to him, and Harry held it in his hands as reverently as if it was made of glass. "But… how did you know it was from her?” Ron asked. “And why would she want to give you a sunflower…?"

Ron and Hermione were openly gaping at him, and Malfoy, too, looked honestly intrigued.

But Harry hardly noticed their confused expressions, nor did he care in the slightest. He held the sunflower lovingly to his body, cradled it on his chest, against the relief of the hidden locket under his shirt. He thought he might cry, so sudden and powerful was the wave of emotion that rolled over him.

Harry didn't say anything in response to their questions. He just walked away, taking the flower with him as he fought back the unwanted tears that began to well in his eyes, going to the guest room and shutting the door behind him. No one followed him.

Harry held the golden sunflower close to his heart as he laid down, letting the tears fall silently onto the pillow under his head, and tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow he would try his hand at the piano again.

* * *

_'…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'_

God, it was truly horrendous.

_'…Harry…'_

...or so he told himself.

_'…Potter…'_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he thought morbidly, _stop, ah, just stop—fuck—_

_'…Ssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'_

Was it just him, or did it seem…louder? More intense, more desperate—

_'…Come to me…'_

…More…

_'…Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'_

_Aaaaah, fuck—_

Clear your mind.

Right. That was what he was supposed to be doing. Clearing his mind… But it was just so lovely sounding… So…

Clear your mind.

…So…

Clear you mind.

_Yes. Clearing my mind._

_'…Ssssssssssssssssss…'_

_Clearing…my mind…_

…It is seductive, isn't it?

_Yes, it is._

You… like it.

_I desperately wish I did not._

It is dangerous.

_I am horribly aware of that._

You should clear your mind.

_I should stop having conversations with myself._

Harry sighed, curling up into the fetal position on his insignificant cot. Why did he continue to speak to himself like this? Wasn't talking to yourself the number one sign of insanity?

_It makes perfect sense, actually. Given your circumstances._

He bit his lip on annoyance. _'What makes perfect sense?'_ Harry thought irately, though to whom the question was being directed, he wasn't even sure.

_That you would invent someone to talk to._

Harry laughed, bitterly. _'Is that what I've done?'_ He sat up, examining the familiar, dusty shelves at his side and feeling skeptical. _'Have I invented an imaginary friend?'_

The hissing continued, melodic and beautiful and—

_Like you've never done it before._

Harry thought about that. He recalled—painfully—his time in his crystal prison, his solitary confinement. Sirius… and him, but not really him, with his black robes and white skin and red, red eyes.

 _'Maybe once or twice,'_ he agreed, begrudgingly.

_It's a relatively normal coping mechanism._

It sounded quite clinical, very matter of fact, this…entity.

 _'Is it, now…'_ Harry began toying absent-mindedly with one of the broken, plastic soldiers. _'How nice. I've always wondered what it would be like to be normal. I'm so glad.'_

_But you're not normal. You're better._

Harry scoffed. _'Yeah,'_ he mused, trading the first broken soldier he'd selected for one with both of its legs intact. _'Yeah, I'm better, all right. I'm 'the Chosen One'.'_

_So you are._

_'And who are you, then?'_

There was a long pause.

_I'm your subconscious. So I suppose I am a part of you._

_'Ah. Well. That clears that up,'_ Harry thought sarcastically, lazily twirling the figurine between his fingers.

_It should._

_'Well, what should I call you, then? Subconscious me?'_

Another long pause. Harry's focus began to shift, drifting instead to that sultry sound, that delicious, beautiful, luscious—

_'…Ssssssssssssssssssprecioussoulssssssssss…'_

_What do you want to call me?_

_'Hm? Oh, I dunno…'_ Harry shook his head, and, admittedly, he did find it easier to ignore the lure of the parseltongue when he was talking to his new 'imaginary friend'. Maybe it was a decent coping mechanism he'd invented, after all. _'I have an owl named Hedwig… Er, I used to, anyway…'_

 _I am not an_ owl _._

For the first time, the voice sounded irate—offended, even. Harry smirked. _'Wow. Leave it me to subconsciously create the world's most sensitive imaginary friend. Okay. So you're not an owl. What the hell are you, then?'_

_…Merely an extension of yourself. Your true self._

Harry frowned. His eyes settled now on one of the delicate spider webs up on the wall, suspended in the shadowy corner of the cupboard. _'My true self, huh…?'_

_Your real self. A part of yourself, perhaps, that you have ignored for a long time._

Harry tried not to laugh. _'Tricky little riddle, aren't you?'_ he mused, suppressing the desire to laugh again…at, what—himself?

The voice laughed instead.

_I am if that's what you say I am._

Harry watched the web with keen interest now as a spider glided across it, adding more of its thread to its beautiful, intricate web. _'Wow. You_ are _a riddle. I've met sphinx's who are easier to figure out than you, you know.'_

_Have you?_

_'Yeah. The answer to that riddle was 'spider.' Is that what you are?'_ The spider continued to spin round and round, moving with purpose as its spindly legs danced across its web. _'Are you a spider, too?'_

_Is that what you think I am?_

_'Are you going to answer every question I have with a vague, infuriating response that is more often than not just another question?'_

_Probably._

It sounded smug. Harry did laugh, this time.

_So, what will you call me?_

Well, really, it was the only thing that made sense, morbid and ironic as it was.

_'Riddle.'_

Harry continued to watch the spider weave its web, and was happy to note that the hissing sound had decreased significantly. Of course he would invent an imaginary friend named Riddle to help him deal with his nightmarish perils.

_Riddle. How appropriate._

The voice sounded… well, it still sounded smug.

But Harry didn't mind, because talking to this made up… thing—it kept the seductive lure at bay. And really, that could only be a good thing. It wasn't proper Occlumency, of that Harry was certain. But it was something.

_So, Harry…_

It seemed to have similar revelations about distracting him from the magnetic pull of the monstrous parseltongue—which it should, Harry mused, seeing as it was…himself…? Regardless, it was strange to hear his name spoken so nonchalantly, when no one in the real world dared to speak it at all.

_Tell me about this sphinx you encountered._

_'The sphinx?'_

_Yes. Tell me about it._

It sounded so… friendly. Harry smiled.

_Tell me everything._


	10. Promises

_This time, it would be different._

_This time, he would never let him out of his sight._

_This time…this time… He would not confine him. He would let him be aware and awake and…_

_And though he detested the very idea of it; even though it caused bile to rise in his throat, tasting like acidic salt on his tongue… He would allow others to know that he lives… He would even, perhaps, spare his friends, those who had so foolishly dared to oppose him… If such a thing would bring him back, if such a thing would… make him happy…_

_The blood traitors… He would allow them to recant, to surrender, and he would spare them; even the mudblood…_

_He would spare them, all of them…_

_All except—_

* * *

"…Severus Snape."

Harry let the name slowly roll off his tongue, carefully annunciating each syllable. He held his hot cup of tea gingerly with both hands, waiting for it to cool to a tolerable temperature. Draco glanced at him from across the kitchen table, confused.

"It's a really strange name.” Harry stated it as though Draco had just argued otherwise. "Right? Severus Snape."

Malfoy looked… more confused. But Harry had been thinking a lot about names that morning.

The thoughts had begun in his dreams where he sat in his dreary confinement, trying to ignore that tempting lure, and really, rambling on and on about his past and whatever other random thoughts popped into his head had been extraordinarily helpful.

His subconscious—or…whatever—was really more of an occasional prompt every so often. Harry just talked and talked and talked, and he hardly noticed the parseltongue at all, then.

Until he'd brought up the topic of names.

 _It was an unforgiveable sin, when he took your name,_ his imaginary friend, his 'Riddle', had said. _Names have power… People grow into their names, are molded by them… You had a good name, Harry James Potter._

_One day, you will have it back._

And so Harry had been thinking about that. Names, and the people he knew, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized quite consciously that it was true—people really did grow into their names.

"I mean," Harry continued as he looked up, "who looks at a baby and says, 'Ah, yes, this one's definitely a Severus.' No wonder he is the way he is. He looks and acts exactly like someone named Severus Snape would."

Admittedly, Harry was still feeling a tad bitter towards the Potions Master at the moment. Snape had just looked so _angry_ when Harry had caught the snitch, when he'd tossed it around for maybe five seconds… and it was all because of his father.

Just because Harry reminded him of a man he once hated. And while Harry could not blame Snape for hating James Potter—he understood teen rivalry quite well, thank you very much; the proof was currently sitting across from him in the form of a pompous blonde—but that was hardly his fault, and really, wasn't the time for such petty matters past at this point?

Apparently not. It was a shame, really. Harry had thought he was making such progress with his ex-professor. They were almost at a sort of truce, even—but that one interaction with the snitch seemed to have caused their relationship to regress monumentally, right back to what it had been in his fifth year.

And so maybe Harry was being a bit… _immature_ , by not telling Snape about the message that he had found on the surface of the Golden Snitch, but…

_'I open at the close'._

Well, if Dumbledore had wanted Snape to know, wouldn't he have told him? It seemed to Harry that this was a message meant only for him…

He tried to envision that particular interaction between the former Headmaster and Snape. He could just imagine Albus Dumbledore having called Severus into his office one day, his blue eyes twinkling like Christmas lights, saying:

_'Severus, listen. I would like you to give this snitch here to Mr. Potter. You know, when you finally manage to find him. Yes, I'm sure you will. I somehow always know how everything will play out, even though I, personally, am currently incapable of locating him. So give him this for me, won't you? It's from his first Quidditch match. For nostalgic purposes. Yes, really. Yes, really. No, there is no hidden reasoning behind it. Yes, really. Oh, also—when you kill me, will you please make sure it's very dramatic? I would like to go out… in style.'_

…So as far as Harry was concerned, he didn't need to tell anyone else. Maybe he wasn't even _supposed_ to.

He looked up at Draco, who was now smirking at Harry's previous comment about Severus Snape.

Well, Harry mused, it wasn't like _Malfoy_ had any idea what the message on the Snitch meant.

"I guess," Draco eventually agreed.

"Names are weird like that, aren't they?" Harry said. He breathed over his tea for a second, cooling it. "Like… Ronald Weasley. Well, of course he would be a redheaded, freckly, gangly person with a funny personality, wouldn't he?"

Draco inclined his head slightly, nodding.

"And Hermione Granger—"

"—sounds just like a know-it-all bookworm with bushy hair."

Harry scrunched his nose a bit at the insult towards his friend, but he didn't disagree (he was maybe feeling slightly bitter towards her at the moment too, even if he knew it was childish and unjustified).

"And Draco Malfoy..." Harry started. Draco looked up at him expectantly, waiting to hear the analyzation of his own name. Harry paused, thinking. "…Sounds like someone who thinks very highly of himself. Like someone with a lot of money and status who is oh so very important. Someone who is probably prone to using the words _'My father…'_ "

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but he didn't argue with Harry's admittedly valid assessment.

"Well, _your_ name sounds like someone who is very, very boring," he drawled before taking a sip of his own tea.

But Harry just nodded, not at all offended… because honestly, he agreed.

Harry James Potter did not sound extraordinary at all. It was a very plain, very common name. Normal. There was nothing special about it, and Harry was certain that he would have been a very average, normal person, if it hadn't been for—

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

And really, Harry thought, recalling the memory of the sixteen-year-old Slytherin Heir from the diary —isn't that exactly what one would expect a Tom Marvolo Riddle to look like? Someone suave and handsome, deceptive and cunning… Someone with perfect skin and aristocratic features; with dark hair and shining black eyes; with a quick wit and a silver tongue. A seemingly harmless name that was just interesting enough to allude to the dangerous threat which simmered beneath the surface…

That name fit him like a glove, then.

But not now.

The most powerful, lethal wizard of all time could never bear _that_ name. The man with white skin and black robes and red, red eyes—no, he could never be known as something so deceptively innocent-sounding. So he crafted himself a new name, a new title, and he had grown into it. He had become everything he'd sought to be, and that name had been a conduit…

Yet Harry had titles, too.

Harry James Potter was a normal name, but that was not who they were toasting on the day that the Dark Lord fell.

_'The Boy Who Lived!'_

…A title which had expired. No one believed he was alive anymore…

And, of course, now there was the other designation he'd been given:

_'The Chosen One.'_

…A title which he'd had for maybe a few weeks, perhaps, before he went missing. A title that was quickly erased after he'd been kidnapped, when he'd disappeared from the Wizarding World and taken all hope with him…

A title which he had virtually no chance of ever growing into at this point, surely.

So, Harry James Potter had become Evans. Did that name suit who he was, now?

"You're right," Harry said, surprising Draco with his lack of retaliation. "It _is_ a boring name. God, I wish I could say I had a normal, boring life to go with it."

Malfoy snorted.

_'But you're not normal. You're better.'_

The voice from his dreams echoed in the back of his mind, but Harry disagreed with it. No, he wasn't better. He was average in almost every sense of the word. And that really didn't bother him.

His name which had been his Father's name… Harry wondered—would saying James Potter out loud trigger the Taboo? Maybe not, as it was, technically, a different person—but he supposed it was better not to risk it regardless.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said instead, smiling. "You know, if you would have asked me, 'What do you think someone named Albus Dumbledore looks like?' I would have absolutely pictured a tall, old man with a long, white beard and half-moon glasses, wearing patterned robes and a pointed hat. Like a stock photo of a wizard."

Draco laughed. "Yeah. How about… Remus Lupin?" he said, joining in and playing along. Harry fondly recalled the disheveled appearance of their old Defense Professor. "It's like his parents were just _begging_ for him to get bitten by a werewolf."

"Huh… Yeah, I guess you're right," Harry chuckled, although the humor was a bit morbid. "And Sirius Black, of course he would be a—"

But the rest of Harry’s words died in his throat, his smile vanishing at once. Because, for just a moment, he had envisioned Remus and Sirius; had remembered the moment when he had seen them united in the Shrieking Shack and they had embraced like brothers… He had recalled it so clearly, had heard Sirius's bark of laughter and seen his wolfish grin and for a fleeting second he had—he had actually forgotten—

And wasn't that strange? That he had been able to so casually discuss the fallen Headmaster without this sense of devastation—with the Draco Malfoy, the one who had been instructed to kill him, no less—but that when he unwittingly brought up memories of his Godfather, it was like someone had jabbed something sharp into an open wound that he'd forgotten was there.

But that was how it was.

Harry got up and left. Malfoy didn't say anything when he went.

* * *

_Sirius Black._

Harry ran his fingers over the name on the door as he stood outside of his Godfather's old bedroom.

He went in.

* * *

It was wonderful.

A bit dusty, and cluttered with various papers and scraps of parchment scattered on the floor—clearly this room had not been used in a long time—but it was warm and welcoming regardless. There was a large bed with a carved, wooden headboard, a tall wardrobe with a mirror, and the _walls_ —the walls were covered in delightful things that made Harry grin despite himself.

They were so filled with pictures that the wallpaper was hardly visible. Banners bearing the roaring lion of Gryffindor were strewn about, bright crimson and gold saturating the space. And lots of posters—motionless, muggle pictures of motorcycles and bikini-clad girls and—Harry chuckled when he saw—a rockabilly, pin-up girl calendar.

Harry never knew he could feel so sad and so amused at the same time. But one thing was for certain—he no longer felt numb.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in all its glorious, bold defiance in the face of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. He almost tripped over a cardboard box that was poking out from under the bed as he went to sit down. He pulled it out, curious… and a bit excited. Whatever his Godfather had hidden under his bed when he was a teenager, Harry thought, it was sure to be good.

He was not disappointed.

Harry laughed out loud as he uncovered nearly an entire carton of muggle cigarettes, and—his smile widened—a few old lighters, and—he laughed even louder—underneath that, several muggle magazines with scantily clad girls on them. Harry instantly flipped one open.

 _Whoa,_ he thought as he dropped it, his face turning red. Sure, he'd figured it would be dirty, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so explicit.

Blushing, he closed it and put it back in the box, turning his attention to the cigarettes instead. Harry had never smoked before. He extracted a single cigarette from one of the already open boxes, examining it idly between two fingers. He'd seen enough from television shows when he was younger to know how to light one, not that it was a terribly difficult concept to grasp. He played with one of the lighters, and though it took him four tries, he finally managed to produce a tiny flame. He sucked in sharply on the other end as he lit it, taking in a deep drag through the filter—

—and immediately began coughing. _Dear God,_ he thought incredulously as he spluttered. It burned in his throat, filled his lungs uncomfortably, and when he coughed he wheezed out puffs of smoky gray plumes.

But then he started laughing. He peered down at the cigarette in his hand curiously. _Why do muggles do this, again?_ he wondered. Yet then he stood, and he felt a sudden rush as he did, feeling slightly… buzzy.

 _Ah, right. That’s why_. He took another drag (though he did not inhale as deeply), and this time he managed not to cough. He blew out a puff of smoke and grinned, the buzzy feeling increasing. He imagined his aunt Petunia's face if he had dared to smoke a cigarette in her house. Grinning wolfishly, Harry took another drag. He knew he would need to ash the thing soon. Harry looked back in the box for an ashtray of some kind, but he couldn't find anything. He started to look around the room for one, scanning the floor.

It was then that he saw something that caught his eye. Something moving… A photograph, a magical one…

Harry dropped the cigarette. He stomped it out immediately, having nearly lit one of the scrap pieces of parchment on fire—and wouldn't that have just been wonderful? Needing to explain to Snape that he had caused a house fire because he'd been smoking cigarettes while snooping around in his Godfather's old bedroom?—but his attention quickly returned to the photo he'd just found.

It was ripped in half. A moving image of… of his father, it had to be, and he was laughing… Darting in and out of the frame, in the corner… A child, an infant, zooming around… on a broom…?

Could it be…?

And there, underneath the photo, was a letter…

Harry snatched it up, greedily and rapidly reading the handwritten text:

_Dear Padfoot,_

_Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going._

_We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us, and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell - also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard._

_Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore_

…But then it cut off, having reached the end of parchment.

Harry did look, but he couldn't find a continuation of the note anywhere. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he concluded that the second page was simply missing, gone, lost to time… and he fell numbly into a seated position on the bed.

Harry read the letter over, and over, and over. This, this was his Mother's handwriting… This, here, in his hands, was the closest he had ever truly been to her; proof that Lily Evans had once been warm and alive, had touched this parchment herself… Harry ran his hands over the surface of the paper as if he could somehow reach her through it…

It was a long time before he was able to actually think about what it was the words meant.

Sirius… He had given Harry a toy broomstick when he'd turned one, and there he was, in the photo… He and his father, James… Harry wondered what happened to the other half of the image…

He'd nearly killed the cat, it said… They'd had a cat… The concept seemed so strange to him…

And… Bathilda, who was Bathilda? The name seemed familiar… And Dumbledore had been holding his father's Invisibility Cloak…

The Invisibility Cloak.

Harry had forgotten about it until then. How it had been draped over his crystal imprisonment, how it had fluttered just so slightly in the breeze; how the cold realization had spread over him in a frigid wave of dread when he'd seen it, how—

Snape had it.

Snape had taken it; he had shoved it in the pocket of his robe when the departed, and he had it somewhere.

Harry… considered this.

He could just hear the Potions Master now if he, Harry, dared to have the audacity to ask for it back; could _see_ coy smirk on his face as he responded in that condescending, clinical drawl:

_'Consider it payment for all of my troubles, boy.'_

…Or something along those lines. And really, what could Harry say to argue against that?

He would… he would have to find a way to get it back. Even if that meant stealing it back, he thought bitterly. It was _his_.

But Harry shoved those thoughts aside as he reread the letter once more.

_Wormy…_

She had referred to Peter Pettigrew as _Wormy_. As if they were old friends—because they _had_ been, they had trusted him with their lives…and he…he had seemed _down_ …

An ember of rage was born in Harry’s chest, igniting into flames that licked at the insides of his rib cage. Harry looked up from the letter with narrow, hate-filled eyes. _Wormy_ …

And, as though the very thought had conjured the image, he saw him.

Harry was on his feet in an instant, shoving the letter and the torn photograph into his pocket. There, wedged into the corner of a mirror above the wardrobe, was another moving image.

It was the Marauders.

All four of them. Wormtail, the short, beady-eyed youth, though he looked very different with a full head of hair and a fat, round face; his father, looking so very much like him it was like seeing a much happier version of himself; Remus Lupin, also looking much cheerier than Harry had ever seen him in reality, so young and vibrant and full of life…so grateful to have found such a wonderful and accepting group of friends…

And then…

Sirius Black.

He really was incredibly handsome, Harry thought. Sirius Black, with his dark, curly hair and pale skin, and there was something about that haughty demeanor, the mischievousness that glittered in those gray eyes that made Harry's chest constrict painfully.

The four Marauders, together and smiling, forever frozen in this moment. Before their friendship was tainted by the war which loomed over them, soon to tear them apart…

But Remus… Lupin still lived. Harry wondered vaguely how he was doing, how he was carrying on…

And Pettigrew. That vile, disgusting rodent, that sorry excuse for a man. He, too, survived; was living amongst the Death Eaters—a rotten, revolting traitor.

How horrendously unfair that Peter Pettigrew should live, while his father—when _Sirius_ —

Hatred was boiling in Harry’s heart, searing in his veins like molten lava. He was on fire with his rage; he could see it smoldering in the depths of his own eyes as he looked up at his reflection, and it was like looking at another person, there, in the silvery surface of the mirror.

"He'll pay," Harry muttered to himself in a voice that sounded like someone else's.

"Retribution…" his reflection said back, softly.

There was a moment where the entire world consisted of nothing but hate. Where his blackened heart knew nothing but the all-consuming, overwhelming need for vengeance.

…But then Harry looked back to the photograph, to the smiling face of his Godfather, and the spell was broken. He sank back onto the bed again, slowly, and the rage filtered out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. In its place came a cold feeling of sorrow and pain.

Of loss.

Harry had never properly grieved for the death of his Godfather. He had never gotten the chance.

_'…I would have done anything to save you…'_

Harry held the photo to his chest and cried.

* * *

The music was getting better.

Harry did not try to replicate his dream song this time. It was too complex, too overwhelming, too daunting.

Someday, he would play like that.

Someday, he would hear that song again.

Yet for now he would settle for a simple, rudimentary melody. Single notes on top of single notes that may not have been exceptional or impressive or anything other than ordinary, but that was okay.

Someday, those same notes would compound; they would blend and bleed together into the torrential song from his dream world of white.

But not today.

The crumpled sunflower sat on top of the slick, black surface of the piano like a guiding light, and it didn't matter that it was damaged or missing petals or that it was already beginning to wither; the sight of it filled Harry with something that was almost like hope.

He played, and fumbled, and furrowed his brows, and tried again. Draco was a silent observer, reading while he passively took in the musical frustrations of Harry James Potter, those notes that made up the strangled sound of his loss, of his pain…

Of his soul.

He wasn't the only one listening.

* * *

"We're going abroad."

Later that day, Ron and Hermione had returned to Grimmauld Place. Or, if one wanted to be more accurate, Ron Weasley and Abigail West had returned. Hermione was wearing her glamour, appearing to be blonde and pale with those icy, gray-blue eyes that so closely resembled Malfoy's.

Draco seemed so disturbed by this form that he could not be in the same room as her, even if it meant potentially missing out on information. He was somewhere else in the house, probably back in the library, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione gathered in the living room.

Snape was somewhere else too. Harry hadn't seen him all day. The first thing his friends had done when they'd arrived was gone to speak with him, but they had only been with him for a moment, and the Potions Master had not come out of his seclusion to join them afterwards.

"Abroad?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. It's…just a thought; a hunch, really, we could be completely wrong, but… Well, one of the things we're searching for may be in another country, far away from here, and…"

She trailed off dismally, and Harry waited, confused as to what she was really trying to say.

"What she's getting at is that we'll probably be gone for… a while," Ron finished, and he looked terribly guilty.

It took him a moment, but then Harry understood.

They were leaving him, alone, for an unknown period… with Snape and Malfoy.

"…Oh."

What else could he to say?

"But here,” Hermione said quickly, “I brought some stuff—"

She reached into her beaded bag, pulling out copious amounts of food, of all things. "I noticed last time that we were here that you ran out of bread, and so while I was out I grabbed some other things I thought you might like…"

She set the groceries down on the table. Bread and fruit and all sorts of other random food that, if Harry had not truly believed that they were going to be gone for a long time a moment ago, he certainly did now.

"Also, I was wondering—how do your clothes fit?"

"Er, what?" Harry asked, looking down at the sweatshirt and shorts he was currently wearing.

"You grew about four inches since last year, you can't possibly be able to wear the same pants that you wore when you were fifteen. Am I right?" Harry couldn't help but smile at her widened eyes—even with the glamour, that was undeniably the intellectual stare of Hermione Granger… and she was always right.

"Yeah," he responded. "They're all too short. It's not a big deal though…"

But Hermione pulled out her wand, shaking her other hand dismissively. "I can take care of it if you don't mind losing one pair," she said. Ron and Harry looked at each other questionably, and Hermione rolled her eyes at their lack of immediate understanding.

For a moment, it felt just like old times. Hermione stood and waited for them to follow her to the guest room. "I'll show you," she said.

And so, just minutes later, Hermione had successfully deconstructed and utilized the fabric from one old pair of jeans and added it so skillfully to the rest that it was almost impossible to tell they had been several inches shorter before. She even redid the stitching on some that were a bit more worn, and, probably just because she was on a roll and wanted to show off, made the denim fabric a richer shade of navy blue—all while reciting in a droning, monotonous voice all of the textbook details of Magical Theory, and how it was impossible to produce something from nothing, but that one could duplicate and manipulate currently present, tangible materials and so on and so forth…

"So, really, as far as food goes, just don't finish the last of anything. Professor Snape is more than capable of duplicating whatever it is you want," she finished curtly as she handed Harry the last pair of pants she'd tailored.

She was looking at him with a concerned, maternal expression. Somehow, Harry thought, it was a worse look than when she was pitying him.

"Right," he muttered, clearly agitated. She smiled anyway.

Ron, however, had a much more appropriate disposition. "I wish we didn't have to go…" he murmured as they went back out towards the front room.

"That makes two of us," Harry sighed. He was already lamenting the fact that he would not see Ron or Hermione in…

"Any idea how long you'll be?"

They shared a quick, apprehensive look. "Er… not really."

"Maybe… maybe a few weeks," Hermione admitted, and though her voice became notably higher pitched, her expression did not waver.

Harry's heart plummeted like a stone in a pool of cold water.

"…A few weeks…?"

"Maybe. Hopefully not, but we don't know…"

Neither of them could make eye contact with him any longer. Harry ran a hand through his hair, stricken at the realization. As if to spite him, the barriers in his mind became notably more irritating.

"A few weeks alone with Malfoy… and _Snape_ …"

Naturally, that was the moment when Snape made known his silent re-appearance. He had, apparently, been observing their discussion with distaste from the other side of the room, an unobtrusive spectator in the doorway.

"What, would you prefer to go back to your previous living arrangement?"

…It was so casual, the way he said it.

Just a typical, condescending drawl; the exact kind of off-handed remark that was to be wholly expected from his ex-Professor.

So then why did it suddenly taste like salt in his mouth?

Why did the room abruptly become so bright?

Why…

…

Harry's ears were ringing.

A drawn out, high-pitched tone that bordered on shrill and he knew it, _knew_ this sound, and it was a musical note and it was the wind and it was his voice—

Harry tried to draw in a breath, but the air refused to flow into his body. It was as if someone had reached into his chest with their bare hands and taken hold; clenched their fingers tightly around his lungs and clamped down, hard—everything was growing brighter and it tasted like brine on his tongue and he couldn't see, he couldn't stand, he couldn't—

 _Breathe_.

Harry was trying to scream, but he couldn't, he had no voice, he couldn't—

_Breathe._

There were splotches of black in his vision now, like bleeding blots of ink, and someone was shouting, angrily, so angrily—Ron's voice, he was yelling at someone, and it was such a furious sound, but it was drowning in that escalating, ringing note, and—

"He's not breathing!"

How was it that Hermione could be so close, so physically near to him, and yet sound like she was miles and miles away?

There were hands on his shoulders and the brightness was blinding—

Magic, uncontainable, was crackling around him, filling the air with veins of lightning like some kind of beautiful, illuminated spider's web—Hermione was flung from him and something was breaking, crashing—falling—

Harry closed his eyes, but he saw a sea of endless white.

He screamed, but his lips could only mouth the silent name, because someone had taken his voice.

He tried to breathe, but he could not, and the next thing he knew the world of white had turned black.

* * *

_You are…hurt._

The cupboard was darker than usual.

Harry lay motionless on his side under a thin, deteriorating sheet. He barely heard the hissing sound over the lingering ringing in his ears. He didn't say anything. He was too shaken.

Ron and Hermione… were leaving.

_You don't need them._

Harry still said nothing.

_Don't you see? That's why you invented me._

Harry felt arms wrapping around him; the undeniable, physical sensation of someone holding him from behind in the darkness, under the blanket… But when he turned and looked over his shoulder, he saw nothing but blackness.

Imaginary…but it felt…nice, being held.

_You don't need them._

Even if it was just... even if it wasn't...

_I'll never abandon you. I'll never hurt you, Harry._

The arms tightened around him. They were warm and soft.

_I promise._

Harry closed his eyes in the darkness, and when he put his arm to his chest, he swore he could really, truly feel someone there with him.

_You will heal, and you will rise again, and you will have retribution. You don't need any of them._

_Not Ronald Weasley._

_Not Hermione Granger._

A pause, and with its next words it sounded more life-like than ever.

_Not—_

* * *

 

 

_—Severus Snape._

_…_

_Lord Voldemort had once believed that there was nothing worse than death._

_Nothing._

_Now, he knew better._

_Now, he understood the words of Albus Dumbledore._

_'…There are other ways of destroying a man, Tom… Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit… Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness…'_

_…_

_Now, Lord Voldemort_ knew _._

_He would take away his freedom. He would strip him of his skin, of his eyes, of his hands and feet. He would rip out his tongue and steal his voice. He would dive into his nightmares and project them in his mind._

_He would reach into his own memories of that fateful, Halloween night. He would pull out the screams of Lily Evans; bottle them like perfume and pour them into his ears._

_He would tell him that her hair had smelled like roses. That her eyes, those green, green eyes, had shone like glistening emeralds when they had watered in fear._

_He would tell him that her tears had tasted like rain._

_He would tell him she had been… so beautiful._

_Severus Snape would never be granted death._

_No._

_He would live, and live… and_ live _._


	11. The Holly in the Snow

_Why was he here?_

* * *

Harry's body felt...heavy.

It was like someone had doubled the force of the gravity in the room. His muscles felt as though they had been replaced by wrought iron, and when he tensed his shoulders, they were aching and stiff.

He opened his eyes to a semi-dark room.

His room. Well… _their_ room, he supposed. Harry was laying on his bed on his side, the hood of his sweatshirt crumpled uncomfortably beneath his neck. He felt the chain of the locket biting into the skin there, and it took a great amount of effort just to shift slightly.

"You're awake."

Harry would have jumped if his body had been up to it. He hadn't noticed Draco Malfoy yet, who was sitting on the edge of his own bed, reading. He was always doing that, wasn't he? Harry thought shrewdly. Reading silently somewhere in the vicinity.

Malfoy closed the book and set it down next to him, an undecipherable, blank look on his face. Harry slowly pushed himself into a seated position. He felt like he had just completed a marathon, his body was so sore. He opened his mouth, about to ask what happened…

…but no sound came out.

Draco's face remained impassive at Harry's puzzled expression. "Snape took your voice away. I imagine he still has you silenced," he explained emotionlessly.

Harry frowned, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up fully. He shot Malfoy a look that asked the question without words.

Draco leaned forward, and—did his lips just twitch? Like… like he was about to laugh?

"Well," Draco began, and his voice was already regaining a bit of that lovely, familiar sneering quality, "you had a bit of an episode, Evans. A panic attack. A breakdown, or something, I dunno. I'm not sure what set you off, exactly—I missed most of it as I was in the library—but I heard the table explode all the way from the other side of the house."

Harry's eyes widened as he recalled it. Bits and pieces of the memory, that feeling of something like electricity rolling over his skin in waves…

"So I ran over to see what was happening, of course, and—" Now it was obvious that Malfoy was trying very hard not to laugh— "and—I mean, I know this is all very serious or whatever, but you were already passed out by the time I got there, and—"

He paused for a second, clearly trying to control himself. "D'you know how when there's a really bad storm, and after lightning has struck, there's this sort of humming sound? And you can feel it, that static in the air? Almost taste it, even?"

Harry nodded, feeling wary. He could hear that reverberating ringing even now; a monotonous, high-pitched note in his mind… And there was the slightest, lingering flavor of salt on his tongue, acidic and numbing…

But Draco smiled.

"Well—like I said, I missed exactly what it was that made it happen—but you must have conjured up some sort of miniature thunder storm, because it was that kind of atmosphere in the room, only about a hundred times worse, and you must've literally shocked the glamour right off of Granger, because she looked like her usual self—except… except—"

He was straight up laughing now. Harry wondered if that was all it was—did he really find it so funny that Hermione had been forced back into her normal appearance, no longer looking like a member of the Malfoy family?

"Except—it was—their _hair_ —" He laughed again, speaking more joyously than Harry had ever heard him. "All three of them. I mean, you too, I suppose, but your hair is already always such a wreck —but Weasley—and _Granger_ , my God—I didn't know it could get any bigger and bushier, but I was wrong, very wrong—"

He was laughing so hard that he had to once more stop for a moment before he finally choked out, "and _Snape_ —"

Draco completely lost it, then. He was trapped in a monumental fit of hilarity as he recalled the apparently static-stricken Potions Master. After a few moments of torrential laughs, he finally looked back at Harry with tears glittering in his eyes. "I wish I could show you. There's gotta be a Pensive here somewhere. It was incredible. Imagine Snape with a really lopsided afro, except it was so much better than that. So, so much better—"

Harry tried to imagine this situation from Malfoy's perspective. Just minding your own business, alone in a nice, quiet library, reading peacefully… and then hearing some kind of sudden explosion, and screaming, and it probably scared him half to death, thinking there was an attack or something… But then to burst into the front room and see… What? Some dismantled furniture, a passed-out Harry Potter, and…

Ron, Hermione, and Snape, looking exceptionally pale and disturbed, with… very static-y, frizzy hair?

Severus Snape, with anything other than greasy, lank curtains for hair around his sallow face was… It was almost impossible to visualize.

But Draco was still sniggering. "It was glorious. I know I shouldn't have, but like I said, I missed the serious bit, so of course I started laughing, right then and there—I mean, once it was clear that no one was dead or whatever—" His expression suddenly became a bit defensive, as though Harry had just been about to scold him (which was silly, because Harry couldn't say anything at the moment)—"and you would have too, if you'd seen it! But Snape cursed me anyway, just out of spite. He got me with a stinging hex three times in a row, but it was worth it."

Draco sighed deeply, the smile on his face now benignly fond and reminiscent. Harry shook his head, and though he was still disoriented and generally felt… well, awful, he grinned too.

After a few moments Malfoy's gleeful disposition began to wane, transitioning into something more stoic. "Ah… Well… You've been out for about..." He glanced up at the wall clock briefly. "Three hours, now."

Harry looked down at the silver watch on his wrist and was surprised to see that the little planets and stars were now glowing vividly bright—tiny, luminescent dots of light on the clock's face. Like they had absorbed some of his electrical magic and were now radiating because of it. It was almost five in the afternoon.

"I'm… supposed to go get Snape… He wanted me to tell him when you woke up."

Harry swallowed, noting how raw his throat felt at such a simple action. He wondered if he would have been able to speak then, even if he'd had his voice.

"I can… not go get him. For a little while."

Harry stared. Was Malfoy… Was he trying to be nice? To _him_? Did he feel bad for him after having had an all-out panic attack?

Or was he just bitter towards Snape at the moment, too?

Maybe both.

Harry didn't know what to say in response. Which didn't really matter, of course, because he couldn't talk. He looked down at his lap, and that ringing sound was slowly, finally beginning to diminish…

Malfoy cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly, like he was fishing for something to say. "Um… Weasley and Granger… They left."

Harry looked up at that. A familiar sensation of being tossed in cold water washed over him.

"About an hour after you were stable. Snape had to knock you out, apparently, or you may have destroyed the whole damn house." Draco actually looked a bit amazed at those words. Harry got the impression that this level of wandless magic—however unintentional—was deeply impressive.

But what he'd just said…

Hermione and Ron… They'd left… He'd had some kind of break down, and…

_And they left you anyway._

"They argued about it." Harry's was surprised to see that Malfoy looked slightly sympathetic. "They didn't want to leave, especially not Weasley… They would have waited until you woke up, I think, but Snape pretty much made them go…"

He looked a bit sour then. "Whatever it is they're doing, whatever it is they're hunting for, apparently it's _such_ an important task that if they don't do it, we're all screwed. I mean, you know, the entire world, not just us." He waved a hand lazily back and forth between them, and Harry couldn't help but smirk at Draco's complete and total lack of optimism.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence… which Harry could do nothing about, though he did try to speak once.

"Oh. Right," Malfoy said sheepishly, clearly trying not to smirk at Harry's inability to talk. "I guess I'll have to go get Snape, if you want your voice back."

Harry shrugged and nodded dismally.

"Er… Okay, then," Draco said. He then got up and left, leaving the door open behind him.

Harry stared down at his hands, his uncomfortable thoughts whirling. Hermione and Ron were gone. It was just he, Malfoy and Snape now, and… Snape... What had he said, again, to make Harry snap like that?

Harry couldn't remember, exactly; could not think of precisely what words he'd used… Maybe his mind had blocked it out… Everything had happened so quickly. He could only recall fractured moments, flickering images of lightning, and white, and muffled voices, and that high pitched, shrill ringing—

Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself not to linger on it and focus instead on what was in front of him. He noticed that Malfoy had left the book he'd been reading behind. Curious, Harry stared at the cover, though there was no title written on it… What was it that Draco Malfoy was reading so much about, these days? He was about to reach out and grab it, to find out—

But then Snape was in the doorway, and, for once, he actually made noise when he appeared. Harry remained seated on his bed, unmoving, completely unsure of what to expect. Snape closed the door behind him. Harry swallowed nervously. Was he about to get yelled at? To be reprimanded for his chaotic outburst? Probably—but he hadn't _meant_ to, he wasn't even sure how it had happened—

Yet Snape said nothing as he crossed the room, glancing down at Draco's messy, unmade bed distastefully before sitting on the edge of it. His hair was lank and greasy as it usually was, and Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't just a bit disappointed.

He didn't… _look_ angry. Snape sat, his spine straight and his pale face twisted uncomfortably, almost as if he was in pain. Harry would have asked, but…

There was a long, drawn out moment in which both parties remained silent. The only sound that could be heard was that clock on the wall, with its soft tick, tick, tick…

Snape took a deep breath in through his nose. It was evident that he was preparing to voice something extremely difficult, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his jaw looked like it did not want to cooperate.

"I…"

He paused after the one word, losing his nerve. His face contorted even more. Harry thought he looked very much like was about to be sick, actually. His dark eyes flickered back and forth between the floor and Harry's chest, like he was trying very hard to look him in the eyes, but some invisible force was preventing him from managing such a task.

Harry waited.

Snape took another breath, about to give whatever it was he was trying to say it another go—

"…I…am sorry."

_…What?_

Snape might as well have just told Harry he thought he was very pretty, so astounded and dumbstruck did he feel.

Had Snape—Severus Snape— _the_ Severus Snape—

…just apologized to him?

He… _did_ still look like he was going to be sick about it, though.

"What I said was inappropriate, spoken without consideration, and… it will not happen again."

Baffled, Harry merely continued to stare at the awkward, pallid face of his ex-professor, who was still resolutely not looking back at him. He thought to say that he wasn't mad, that he wasn't upset, really—that, if anything, he felt guilty that he had lost control and could have—how had Malfoy so eloquently put it?—destroyed the whole damn house…

But he couldn't say any of those things. He couldn't say anything at all.

So instead, Harry just nodded. Very, very slowly.

Snape seemed to note the gesture, despite the fact that his gaze was fixated decisively on the floor at Harry's feet. He nodded as well—though it was a much curter, crisper gesture—before he was on his feet and on his way.

Harry was still in a state of disbelief when the Snape paused, hovering in the entryway. Still without looking at him, still unable to make eye contact, he flicked his wand in Harry's direction, muttering something under his breath.

He was gone before it had even fully taken effect, before the spell completely lifted and Harry had regained the use of his vocal cords. Harry stared at the empty doorway, and as he absent-mindedly rubbed his neck, he wondered… Why had Snape done it like that? Why had he waited until he was already on his way out the door to return his voice? It was like he hadn't wanted Harry to even have the option of saying anything to him, to be able to explain or ask questions or…

Well, it was like Snape hadn't wanted to hear he was forgiven.

* * *

_Did he deserve this?_

* * *

All awkward, tense situations aside, the 'House of Ghosts', as Malfoy had so aptly once titled it, was, generally speaking… a boring place to live.

Snape was back in his state of isolation, holed in his room sleeping, or doing whatever else that he was unwilling to disclose to Harry and Draco. His presence in the house was apparent, however, in the form of the occasional sounds of movement from the kitchen (during which time they would stay far, far away, as neither of them felt much like being threatened with sharp objects), which resulted in some of the most delicious food that Harry had ever tasted in his life. Yet Snape remained ostentatiously absent afterwards. For days, in fact, Harry did not actually see the Potions Master in the flesh at all. The older wizard seemingly only ever left his room during those short, sporadic periods of time when he cooked, and the only reason Harry and Draco knew it was safe to go in at all afterwards was because the door would suddenly be open. But Severus Snape himself was never present.

The first day that Harry had woken up after his 'episode', Snape had made what was probably the best steak that had ever been crafted in the entirety of the history of the world. It was almost sinful, how good it was, and the potatoes he'd made to go with it—Harry hadn't even known potatoes could taste like that. Draco, despite his generally proper dining etiquette, looked as if he had been tempted to lick the plate clean afterwards.

"You should lose your shit more often," he'd said after they'd eaten in a tone that was not joking in the slightest, pointing a fork in Harry's direction.

But other than that one relatively thoughtless remark, Draco kept his verbal distance, clearly on tenterhooks around the recently nearly-explosive Harry Potter. He was almost being considerate, even… an ephemeral behavioral state that was to last no more than twenty-four hours, as it turned out.

But in that first day, Malfoy remained respectful, passing the time reading whatever it was he was so interested in nowadays.

And Harry played the piano.

* * *

_The world was white and vast and empty._  

* * *

 

The day may have passed quietly, but Harry's night was filled with conversation.

They talked about the future.

_Have you given much thought to what you want to do with your life? After you're free?_

His friend wasn't holding him this time. It was just he, Harry, physically alone in the cupboard with a bodiless voice which emanated from the shadows. The closet was so dark these days he could hardly see his hands in front of his face. And the hissing sound… That lovely lure of parseltongue… Well, it was there, it was always there, but Harry was fairly certain it was getting… softer, quieter. Weaker. Maybe it was because he was losing hope. Maybe…

Maybe the Dark Lord was finally beginning to accept that Harry Potter was gone.

Harry frowned as he considered the question. He hadn't given that any thought.

'After the war…?' Harry pondered. He tried to imagine life without the omnipresent threat of Lord Voldemort in his life, and found that it was exceptionally difficult. He had never known such a utopian existence. His world had always revolved, in some form or another, around that dark entity; that eternal, looming threat… Before his birth, even. The subject of a prophecy, a child born as the seventh months dies…

What would his life be like, if Lord Voldemort was not in it?

'I… I dunno,' he answered honestly. 'I used to think I would want to be an auror, but… I'm not sure, anymore.'

_An auror?_

'Yeah. I mean, I never really considered anything else, honestly… But it wouldn't have happened anyway. Even if I had been able to go back to Hogwarts last year… I only got an 'E' in my Potions O.W.L., I wouldn't have been able to sign up to even try to get a N.E.W.T. in it, so I wouldn't have received all the pre-requisites…shame. Not the whole not-being-able-to-be-an-auror thing, but the fact that I missed that year at Hogwarts. It would have been the first year I wasn't in a class of Snape's.'

He sighed wistfully at the full comprehension of such a loss. 'I may have even been Quidditch Captain. God, I can't even imagine. No Umbridge. No Snape. Just… endless amounts of Quidditch.'

_And studying for your other subjects, surely._

Harry snorted, the voice reminding him of Hermione in that moment.

'Occasionally, sure.'

He began playing with one of the toy soldiers again. It was amazing how many of them were broken; how his aunt and uncle had not even felt him worthy of a set of plastic figurines which were all intact.

'Maybe that's what I would have done,' he finally answered. 'Maybe I would have tried to go on and play Quidditch professionally. I might have been able to pull it off, too. I was pretty good. Viktor Krum himself told me I was a great flyer… God, I miss it.'

_Quidditch?_

'Yeah. There's something about soaring through the air that just… Well, it makes you feel invincible, really. It's like you just leave all your troubles and woes on the ground when you take off, and then it's just you and the sky… And, in my case, a shiny, dastardly little golden ball.' He set the soldier down, now actively looking for one that wasn't broken. It didn't look like he had any.

_Would you continue to play Seeker? If you played again?_

'I suspect I would. Chasing might be fun, and it would be nice to be more a part of the game. Focusing solely on the one task of catching that thing means I miss out on the bulk of the action when I play, but… I was a good Seeker. There wasn't a Snitch that could outwit me.'

Harry’s smug grin faltered for a moment, recalling the thin, fleeting script from a dead man’s hand. ' _I open at the close.'_

'Well…maybe one.'

_You only lost one match?_

Harry blinked, slightly thrown off, because that hadn't been what he was thinking about at all. 'Er… Yes, actually. Only one. And it was really unfair, honestly—I swear I'm not just being a sore loser about it—but there was this giant storm, and dementors, they come onto the field in the middle of the game! Lots of them! And—er—they sort of affect me pretty terribly, those fucking things, worse than most people—'

_Do they?_

Harry shuddered. 'Yeah. I almost died that day,” he admitted. ‘I fell about a thousand feet from the ground, and if it hadn't been for Dumbledore slowing the fall… Well. Anyway, I didn't die, but we did lose the match.' Harry finished the statement in a bitter tone, as though that was an equally terrible outcome.

_You lost the match… But did your House win the cup at the end of the year?_

He grinned, reminiscing. 'Yeah. Yeah, we did.'

_Ultimate victory is all that matters._

Harry nodded, still looking for just one unbroken soldier amongst the dozens that he had… Ah! There!

He held one in his hands, a little warrior-man with two legs, two arms, and no chipped or flaking paint. This one even had a gun. Harry grinned—he was perfect.

_And you will be triumphant in the end, Harry Potter._

 

* * *

_…Empty._

* * *

The piano song was slowly, painfully, incrementally…improving.

Harry was at it again. There was nothing else to do, really, besides read or explore the house… Which Harry thought he would do again at some point. Sirius's room probably had a lot of other interesting stuff in it and someday, he vowed, would go back in and look. But not now. It was still…

It was still too painful.

He'd been playing all morning, and it did pass the time quickly. It was taxing, and difficult, and he could do it all day, honestly, if he didn't eventually get a bit restless from remaining seated for so long.

He was just on the precipice of a pivotal moment—there, that little sequence he'd just done, that sounded exactly like a bit he recalled, when—

Draco let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Harry fumbled, effectively distracted. He frowned, trying to get his fingering back. A moment later and he thought he'd found it again, was about to finally have something—

Another sigh, only louder this time.

Harry's eye twitched. He had been so close, it was _literally_ at his fingertips, that little passage; that light, playful part that he once played in his dreams, and he was going to have it, he was going to really play it, damn it, to make it real— _there_ —

Malfoy's sigh was so pronounced this time that it was vocal. Harry slammed his fingers down on the keys, making a jarring, discordant sound that was nothing at all like his illusive dream song.

"What?" he snapped, looking up. Draco was sitting on the couch, his book abandoned on the cushion at his side. His arms were crossed and he was looking at Harry with an accusatory stare.

"I'm bored," he declared.

Harry rolled his eyes before looking back down at the piano keys. "That's rough," he muttered before he started playing again.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, standing on the other side of the piano so that he could watch Harry struggle. "Why are you so interested in playing that thing, anyway?" he asked.

"Because," Harry answered without really answering. He didn't look up, just continued to focus on the keys.

"But why?"

Harry ignored him, though it was impossible to concentrate properly with him looming over him like that. Draco put his hands on the top of the piano and leaned closer.

"Why—?"

 _"Oh-My-God-You-Are-Such-A-Brat!"_ Harry shouted, slamming down on the keys forcibly with each word. Malfoy smirked, looking smug at having got a reaction from him, as he knew he ultimately would.

"Here." Harry stood, snatching up some spare parchment from the table behind him. "Go—go find some crayons and color me a picture or something."

Draco took the parchment and looked up at Harry, one eyebrow quirked. "Some what?"

"Crayons, you know…" But the expression on Malfoy's face made it clear that he did _not_ know. "They're—they're coloring sticks—no? Must be a muggle thing, then."

Malfoy dropped the paper, looking between it and Harry as though they had conspired together to insult him. Harry shrugged, sitting back down at the piano bench.

"Why are you so obsessed with playing that thing?" Draco tried again.

"Because it's something to do." And while it wasn't a complete answer, it was an honest one.

Draco made another huffy noise, and Harry recognized that if he, Draco Malfoy, was not preoccupied, that he, Harry, would continue to suffer the consequences.

Harry glanced down at the trunk that he'd uncovered days ago. He _was_ curious as to what could be in it…

"What d'you think Orion Black would keep in there?" Harry asked, pointing towards it.

Draco turned his attention to the old, wooden chest, walking towards it and prodding it with his toe. "Dunno…" he said thoughtfully. "Probably something good, though…"

Well, obviously by _good_ he'd meant _bad_ and undoubtedly _dark_ , and that was why he was smirking like that. Draco’s eyes were sparkling with curiosity as he looked back up at Harry. "You haven't found a key for it?"

"No," Harry responded, though he had been meaning to search for one. But if he could get Malfoy to do it for him, and keep him busy, well, he'd just kill two birds with one stone, then, wouldn't he? "I bet it's somewhere here in the library though," he suggested lightly.

Malfoy nodded, already scanning the shelves and furniture in the room as if the key might just jump out from between a few books and land right in his hand. "Yeah… Maybe…" He looked down at the desk and began digging through the drawers.

"Just call me Tom Sawyer," Harry murmured to himself, happy to be able to turn his attention back to his daunting musical task.

"Call you what? Tom?" Draco asked, and Harry saw him looking up at him from the desk, his expression quizzical. "What, you don't like Evans anymore?"

He looked even more confused by the way Harry's face had just instantly paled. "No. Don't—Evans is good. I was just making some stupid reference."

"A _muggle_ reference?" Draco's eyes narrowed. "I hate that, when you mention stupid muggle things and I have no idea what you're talking about—"

"And I hate it when you whine and pout like a pretentious, spoiled child, and yet…" Harry threw his arms out widely on either side of him, glaring,

"…Here we are."

He dropped his arms to his side. Draco glowered.

"God, I hate it here," he snarled. Draco kicked the wooden chest, hard—and immediately must have regretted it, because he took in a sharp breath as he bounced away on the other foot, clearly in pain.

Harry laughed. Loudly.

"Shut up," Malfoy spat, limping towards the piano again and muttering curse words under his breath.

But Harry was already placing his fingers on the keys again, beginning to play. "Oh, why don't you go have a good cry about it. Myrtle's probably waiting for you."

He had just started to get back into it, feeling the music beginning to flow—

_"What did you just say?"_

Draco's voice was drastically different, hostile and shrill. Harry glanced up at him in confusion. Why did he suddenly look so stricken and pale, and—

Oh.

_Oh._

…Uh oh.

"…Um—"

"How did you know about that?" Draco was standing firmly on both feet now, radiating some bizarre yet palpable mixture of rage, confusion, and… embarrassment?

"Know about w-what?"

 _Oh God,_ Harry thought. He was in trouble now. He wondered just how many times he was going to do this, to accidentally blurt out some stupid, stupid remark. He hadn't even thought about that comment, it had just slipped out…

"Myrtle," Draco snapped. "How did you know about… about…" Harry could practically see the gears turning in his head as he recalled that memory—of being in the bathroom, and how one time, Moaning Myrtle had screamed bloody murder, and said she'd seen a ghost…

"You…" he started, the comprehension visibly dawning on his face. But he looked very conflicted, too, like he was on the fence as to whether he should even put such a wild, insane thought into words—Harry hoped desperately that he wouldn't—

"You were there."

But he did.

"I was _where?_ What are you talking about?" Harry's voice didn't sound very convincing as he tried to feign ignorance.

"You were there, in the bathroom. When I—and the mirror cracked—and _Myrtle said she saw you_ —"

Harry felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "You sound like a crazy person, Malfoy," he said, putting all the disdain he possibly could into each word. "I have no idea what the hell you're going on about. How could I have been in Hogwarts? What, you think that you-know-who was—was letting me out occasionally to go on bathroom breaks?"

Draco looked like he was feeling far too many emotions at once, and his face couldn't decide which one it wanted to properly express. "But—why— _how_ —" He swallowed thickly, deliberating for a moment. "Why did you say that just now then?"

Harry racked his brains, trying desperately to come up with something. "Uh… I dunno, just sort of came out. Myrtle's always crying, isn't she, and if you were having such a bad, horrible time of it at your awful year at Hogwarts when you were trying to _kill Dumbledore_ , well, she's great company if you're miserable."

Harry hadn't intended to work himself up into a temper, but now he was scowling at the thought of Draco spending a year trying to murder the Headmaster. Draco finally settled on one feeling then, too. And it was the same one.

Anger.

"You have no idea what my year was like," he fumed, his pale face quickly turning red. "You have no idea what I had to do, what I had to deal with—none at all—you're lucky, you were just sound asleep somewhere, weren’t you—you have no idea—"

"Is that what you think?"

Harry's voice was so cold, so mirthless that it silenced Draco at once, despite the fact that it was barely above a whisper. The fiery anger that had just begun building in Harry’s chest a moment before vanished, and in its place was an cold, icy hatred that was far more dangerous.

Harry stood.

Draco physically recoiled.

"Is that what you think?" he repeated in that same, dark tone. Malfoy's face was swiftly paling again. "You think that I was just sleeping comfortably somewhere, do you? Just enjoying a nice, long nap?" Harry laughed, and it was most chilling, joyless sound that had ever left his mouth. But the fake smile was gone in an instant, because Draco looked frightened now. He had taken a step backwards, his eyes darting momentarily towards the door as though he was thinking of making a run for it—and that just incensed Harry even further, that he should be so callous, so thoughtless as to throw out that remark, and then show such weakness afterwards—it made him so angry, how pitiful he looked—

_Retribution._

"Let me tell you something, Draco."

Harry advanced, and Malfoy took another hasty step back. "Whatever shit you had to go through last year, whatever horrible, unfair circumstances you had to deal with—it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to what happened to me… Consider this."

Draco's back was now flat against the wall, and Harry stood so close to him that he was hardly an inch from his face. He must have truly been terrifying in that moment because Draco froze, petrified, looking at Harry with gray eyes that were wide in fear.

"If you were a Dark Lord with incredible power, if you were a master Occlumens and Legilimens, if you had been trying to kill one particular person for years but had failed, _many_ times—if that same person had thwarted your plans over and over and over again—if you finally had that object of your heated, manic obsession in your grasp, and you were him, sadistic, evil, twisted, _insane_ …"

Harry’s voice trailed off, looking back and forth between each of Malfoy's fearful eyes, knowing that Draco Malfoy was rapidly imagining a stream of countless, horrifying possibilities about what the Dark Lord might have done to him. The endless implications hung in the air, unspoken.

He smirked. Draco flinched as though Harry had just hit him.

"So, no, Malfoy…"

Harry leaned in so that his mouth was close to Draco’s ear. Harry could practically hear his heart thundering in his chest like it, too, was desperate to escape this situation.

"… _You_ have no idea."

And then Harry stepped away, crossing the room and once more taking a seat at the piano. His voice was back to its usual casualness when he spoke next, as though that intense interaction hadn't happened at all.

"That being said, do you mind not bothering me for a while? I'm trying to practice."

Malfoy didn't speak another word all day.

* * *

_…So why could he still not leave?_  

* * *

 

That night, they talked about the past.

'I never knew I was a wizard, growing up.' Harry pulled the thin, raggedy blanket around him. 'I didn't know anything at all about the magical world. I was just a pathetic, scrawny thing. A punching bag for my fat cousin.'

A spider landed on his shoulder. Harry didn't brush it off, just let it walk along, slowly making its way down his arm on its long, spindly legs. He never really minded them, the spiders.

'I didn't even have friends.'

_How did you find out about the magical world, then?_

Harry grinned as he continued to watch his eight-legged companion on his sleeve. 'Hagrid,' he answered. 'A giant man. Literally. I wonder how he's doing… He had a thing for spiders, too…'

_A thing?_

'Yeah… He raised this terrifyingly dangerous spider-monster while he was student, a baby acromantula… It got him expelled, but not for the right reasons…'

_What do you mean?_

'Well,' Harry started, 'It's sort of a long story. The Chamber of Secrets was opened while he was in school, and he got blamed for it, but…' Harry furrowed his brows, concentrating deeply. 'Well, really, now that I'm thinking about it, it's kind of crazy how that all went down. I mean, what happened was… Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle happened. He's the Heir of Slytherin, and _he_ opened the Chamber of Secrets… And the monster was a basilisk, not a spider, and he set it out to kill the muggle-borns… But when a student was finally killed, and they threatened to close the school, well…"

Harry paused.

_What happened, then?_

'He blamed the whole thing on Hagrid. Made it look like the monster that had killed her was his pet acromantula so that everyone would think the whole ordeal was over, and the school could remain open… But—'

The cupboard-spider had paused, was motionless now on his forearm. 'But what doesn't make any sense, really, is… how that worked. They girl was petrified to death. I mean, if an acromantula had killed her, even a young one, it would have just eaten her, wouldn't it? Or at least tried.' Harry shuddered. 'It definitely would have tried. I know from personal experience.'

_Do you?_

'Yeah. Not the happiest moment in my life. Anyway—I don't understand how that worked. Why did everyone just accept that story so easily?'

_I don't know. It sounds like this Tom Riddle was an exceptionally good liar._

Harry scoffed. He envisioned the sixteen-year-old boy from the diary, the memory which the young Slytherin Heir had showed him… Tom Marvolo Riddle, so smooth and suave and handsome, cornering Hagrid and making even the half-giant himself doubt his pet, that it may have been Aragog who had done it…

'Yeah. Yeah, he definitely was… is.'

He couldn't help but focus for a moment on the parseltongue lure. How it was such a blatant deception, such a ruse, such a… such a…

Such a…beautiful sound…

_That's dangerous._

'Hm?' Harry had unwittingly shifted, was even about to get to his feet. 'Fuck.' He slumped back down onto the cot, clenching his fists—and was surprised to see that the little spider had managed to remain clinging to his sleeve. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck.'

_It is rather alluring, isn't it? Parseltongue._

Harry groaned. 'I really wish it wasn't. Why is that, though?' The spider had begun moving again, was on its way towards his hand. 'Why does it sound…why do I find it so…'

He was blushing. Apparently Harry could not even have this conversation with himself without feeling embarrassed.

_…Attractive?_

'Ugh… yes," Harry admitted out loud, finally, bemoaning the truth of it. 'God help me. I do. It's horrible, isn't it? That I find it so goddamn attractive.'

_So do I._

'Well, yeah. Of course you do, my strange little sub-conscious riddle.'

The voice laughed. Was it just him, or was it getting more animated as time went on?

'What… How were you here, before?' Harry asked. He lifted his hand, and the spider slowly crept around his wrist.

_What do you mean?_

'You…you were here, before. Like, physically. You were…sort of holding me.' This was such a strange conversation to be having, Harry could barely comprehend it. 'How was that possible? And…why?'

_I suppose I was just there because you needed me, then._

'…Oh.' Harry was oddly… disappointed.

There was a stretch of silence. The parseltongue came floating back to the forefront of his mind, against his will, and—

Then he felt them again. Arms wrapping around him from behind, concealed in darkness… but they seemed warm and nice and real, so real. They pulled him gently backwards so that Harry's back was resting against what felt very much like someone's chest, and it felt so ridiculously good, the simple action of being held. He reached his hands up to feel them. He noticed that the spider was gone.

"Just like you need me now."

* * *

_Sometimes, he thought he saw him._

_Sometimes, he thought he felt him._

_The tiniest prickling at the back of his mind, an almost indiscernible twinge of… annoyance? Anger? Emotions that certainly were not his. But no matter how he reached for them, it was like grasping at empty air. There was no response to his continuous beckoning. No reply to his despairing lure._

_He was calling for a phantom._

* * *

Draco continued to follow Snape's orders and be near Harry at all times, to keep an eye on him, but he kept a much more respectful distance. He only listened in the background while Harry tried to play the piano—and, truthfully, his panicked efforts were sort of starting to pay off. It was beginning to sound like a song.

 _I am going to get this,_ Harry thought determinedly as his fingers danced across the keys. There was nothing he wanted more, it was his heart's truest desire—he closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw the piano in his dream world and he heard the song and it was there—

_I have seen your fears…your dreams…_

It was there, he could hear it now; it was in his head and in his heart and in his soul—

_Your heart…_

his fingers were moving so rapidly now they were a blur across the keys; black and white and perfect—

_…and it is mine—_

Harry played as though _possessed_ —

_Mine—_

"What the _hell_?"

Harry started. Malfoy was on his feet, standing over the piano and looking stunned.

"What?" Harry asked. Draco shook his head, slowly, like he was in a state of total disbelief.

"I thought… You said you'd never played the piano before, I thought."

Harry frowned, and noticed that he felt a bit…off. "I haven't," he said.

"But… you were just… that… it was… good." It looked like it was a very difficult task for Malfoy to say anything to Harry that resembled a compliment.

Harry stared down at his fingers. The barriers in his mind felt substantially more uncomfortable all of a sudden. "…Did… was it…?" he murmured.

Draco was staring at him with a very confused and wary expression. Harry scratched his head pointlessly.

"…I think…I think I need to go lie down."

* * *

_He was reaching for a ghost._

_He was…_

* * *

"What do you look like?"

The tiny, dark enclosure was a much more comfortable place to be when he wasn't alone. Having the physical sensation of someone—a living, breathing person behind him, holding him… Well, Harry hadn't realized how much he'd needed it until he had it. Someone that would just embrace him and make him feel safe.

Maybe that was silly. Maybe it was pathetic, stupid. But that was the truth, and so Harry’s subconscious had made it up for him. While he was being held in the arms of his imaginary friend, his 'riddle'… the parseltongue was decisively easier to ignore.

"Well… Seeing as I am a part of you, I would assume that I look like you."

"Hm." Harry turned, looking over his shoulder in the dark—but he couldn't see anything but blackness there. Like his mind was blotting out the space where a face should be…

"Why can't I see you?" he asked, peering over his other shoulder instead. He bit his lower lip in annoyance.

"I am your sub-conscious," it answered in a bit of a drawl. "So if you can't see me, that's your own doing." Harry scowled. His little riddle really was getting more and more… something, lately.

"Maybe you're not ready to see me," it added in a sly tone.

Harry rolled his eyes, a gesture that was completely useless in the dark, especially when the person—thing?—it was being aimed towards didn't seem to have a face.

"There is a theory," the riddle went on, it's voice now light and innocently pensive, "a psychological theory, that if an individual were to be confronted with oneself physically for a prolonged period of time, ultimately, one of two scenes would unfold."

Harry felt one of the arms around him move, and then a finger was running gently up and down his arm. It was oddly soothing.

"Oh, yeah?" Harry asked. When the riddle didn't respond, he prodded, "and what are those two scenarios?"

"Fight or fuck."

Harry laughed at the casual way it was said. "Very funny," he muttered. Then there was a long pause.

"Wait. You’re being serious?" Harry asked.

"I am."

"Er… wow, really?" Harry laughed again, though it was a bit nervous now. "Those are my only options? Couldn't we… couldn't we just play chess or something?"

It laughed, this time. "I am rather good at chess," it conceded.

"So you're good at chess, you're smart, you're… nice… Have I just molded together a bunch of characteristics from my best friends and invented you as a replacement because they left?"

"No." The voice was soft and polite, but Harry could sense the tiniest twinge of malevolence there. "I am not like them."

"You kind of are," Harry answered.

"I am not."

"Are."

"Stop it."

Harry was grinning, and wasn't it odd, that he could be having such fun bantering with himself…?

"Yes, you are, you are, you are. I've made the subconscious love-child of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, a half-blood best friend. I've created a monster."

The voice made a sort of snarling noise—admittedly nothing like any sound Hermione or Ron had ever made—before it started talking again.

"Do _not_ —"

But then Harry sat bolt upright, his entire body tense. Because in that brief moment of quietness, the short span of time in which neither of them were speaking, he'd noticed—

"Oh my God—Riddle—listen!" They both fell silent, and Harry held his breath in anticipation… but he hadn't imagined it. It was true. Harry smiled so broadly that his face hurt.

"The parseltongue! It's…It's…"

* * *

_…gone._

_Harry James Potter was gone._

_…_

_For days Lord Voldemort had cast himself into seclusion to this landscape of white and nothing but white. This terrain, this unforgiving climate which consumed everything that dwelled within its borders… Just as it had extinguished the fiendfyre, had swallowed it whole and left nothing behind as though it had never been…_

_As though he had never been…_

_…_

_…Was this how a Dark Lord grieved?_

_He reached into his robes and extracted his wand… his wand. He had been carrying it on his person ever since…_

_Holly. Eleven inches. Relatively supple. Phoenix feather core._

_The same phoenix._

_His old wand's other half._

_Voldemort held it in his deformed hands, his mutilated fingers. The biting cold of this place had turned them black, darkened them, tainted them with a death that could not touch him…_

_He dropped the holly wand to the ground, and the whiteness immediately claimed it for its own. In moments it was gone, buried, vanished…_

_As though it had never been…_

_But he, the Dark Lord, had a new wand, now… A better one, a stronger one…_

_Voldemort looked back down to his empty, denigrated hands. He had…destroyed his body, being here, in this place…_

_Yet he endured._

_Against the very laws of nature, he remained standing. Even with a body that by all rights should have perished long ago, he persisted, persevered, lived…_

_Because Lord Voldemort was eternal._

_He would craft a new body. Not like he was before; he would not resurface from this devastation as the wizard who had been resurrected in a graveyard, born of his father's bone and his servant's limb and—_

_No._

_He would create a new form. A better form, a stronger form. The world would see his face and look into his eyes and they would see the hatred there and they would drown in it. He would wrap his hardened fingers around Britain and claim it. He would cleanse it of the mudbloods and the traitors and the opposition. He would purify it of the muggles and the filth. The streets of London would bleed crimson…and it would be beautiful._

_He would heal._

_He would rise again._

_…_

_There would be retribution._


	12. Pyres

_Three days._

_For three days the Dark Lord wandered in the world of white, where the wind forever sings the song of his precious soul's death. For three days he had been gone from his followers—without a word, without notice, without instruction…_

_Would they think him fallen, again?_

_Would they think him truly dead, this time?_

_…_

_He snapped his wand into pieces._

_The old wand, the yew wand. The wand deprived of its other half. He extracted the feather from its core and dropped the broken fragments of wood to the ice and snow. The feather from a phoenix... That phoenix. The same phoenix. Its feather caught him in a plume of magical fire and took him to it._

_The creature was… glorious._

_The crimson bird took in the sight of Voldemort’s blackened, frostbitten body and cried. He heard its musical lament, saw the sorrow in the depth of its obsidian eyes for the loss of its former master—a loss that it would carry for the rest of its immortal life—and for the first time, the Dark Lord understood empathy._

_He would grant it mercy._

_…_

_They say it is a great sin to slay a unicorn._

_They say it is an atrocity to kill something so pure, so innocent… That to drink its blood will save you from the brink of death, but that the moment the liquid touches your lips, you will live a half-life, a cursed life…_

_They say nothing of what it means to kill a phoenix._

_Such a thing has never been accomplished before; few would even think to try. But the ability of Lord Voldemort knows no bounds, bows to no laws, conforms to no boundaries…_

_He drank its tears and drained it of its blood._

_He consumed its heart._

_…_

_…Such power._

_Such ancient, pure magic. It ignited in his soul._

_It was the healing fire._

_It brought his frozen limbs back to life in a burning, scorching pyre._

_It was… glorious._

_…_

_Would his followers—his faithful Death Eaters, those who had confessed their undying loyalty unto him time and time again—would they recognize him now, in this new body? In this resurrected form?_

_He came forth from the ashes. He extracted the Elder Wand and held it reverently in his hands; hands that felt infinitely stronger than they ever had in his previous life. His eyes, his red, red eyes, were smoldering like embers, alight with that immortal fire, that eternal flame._

_Lord Voldemort had risen again._

* * *

When Harry awoke, it was with a smile on his face.

He practically jumped out of bed, laughing, startling awake an instantly crabby Draco Malfoy. Draco shot up, too, looking shocked and confused and fearful—

 _"Mee-ahh!"_ he screeched as he looked wildly up at Harry, which was a noise that he could only assume was supposed to mean 'What?', or 'What happened?', or, perhaps, 'Who died?'

"It's gone," Harry said breathlessly, placing both his hands on Draco's shoulders.

"Gone!"

Draco gawked at him, and the sight of him in combination with his recent, happy discovery made Harry laugh even harder. Malfoy's hair was disheveled, his eyes were slightly out of focus, and there were defined creases on the side of his face where he'd been buried into a pillow moments before.

"Gone!" Harry repeated, shaking his shoulders violently. But before Malfoy could try to formulate a proper response to that (or even attempt to push him off), Harry was running for the door. What time was it? He checked his watch—seven in the morning—that was late enough, wasn't it? He was practically leaping down the hall as he headed towards the master suite, and it was the closest that he'd ever been to behaving like a small child on Christmas morning.

"Professor!" he called, unable to help himself. Harry turned a corner, taking in another deep breath to call again. "Pro—"

And then nearly collided with the man himself. Severus Snape was already awake, but Harry was too excited to be startled by his usual silent, jarring appearance.

"It's gone," he said again, still grinning widely. "The parseltongue, it's gone." His eyes flickered down to Snape's arm, unsure if he should ask—

But he didn't have to. Snape, to his surprise, pulled the sleeve of his robe up to reveal what was only a faint, pale outline of the Dark Mark. Harry's smile somehow broadened even more at the sight, at the confirmation that it represented, and when he looked back up at Snape's face it was to see that almost-smile there again.

"Yes. I know."

And if they were any other two individuals in the world, this would have been the moment where they hugged, embracing each other as two brethren who had now weathered the worst of a violent storm. But this was Harry Potter and Severus Snape, and a line had to be drawn somewhere. They seemed to come to this semi-conclusion at the same time, and the moment became extremely uncomfortable… especially as they each recalled their last encounter, which had been days ago. Harry cleared his throat, wondering what he should say as they stood there uneasily in the hallway.

"Hooray."

Draco's voice, deep and cracking with drowsiness, disrupted the silence. They both turned to see him shuffling towards them. Malfoy bumped into Harry's shoulder as he passed, making his way slowly and ungracefully towards the kitchen. His next words were spoken under influence of a long, drawn out yawn as he stretched his arms over his head.

"Yooou're dead." His voice straightened out and his arms dropped. "Again," he added dismally.

And without a backwards glance towards either of them, Draco shoved the kitchen door open with a thud. When Harry glimpsed back at Snape's face, he thought he caught the tail-end flicker of a _real_ smile.

* * *

"So… Does this mean we'll start Occlumency lessons, Professor?"

The three supposedly deceased wizards were gathered in the kitchen. Draco, amazingly, had made tea for all of them without being told to—a true testament to his adjustment to this living arrangement. Or to the fact that he was still moderately terrified of Harry and not in the mood to be hit with another stinging hex by Snape, and thus willing to be polite so that he might be in their good graces.

"No," Snape answered. Harry's face fell. "Not yet," he finished, his tone a bit less harsh.

Harry scratched at his head, grimacing at the aggravating feeling of his thoughts. "Why not?"

Snape took a long sip of tea before responding, looking deeply contemplative. Harry and Draco waited before he finally spoke in a measured tone.

"It is my belief that, while this is most assuredly a sign that he is giving up hope, we are not quite… out of the woods yet, so to speak." He took another sip. Harry was practically vibrating in his seat with impatience as Snape slowly set his cup down on the table.

"What d'you mean?" he finally spluttered out, unable to wait quietly for him to continue. "Sir?"

Snape looked up at him with an impassive, blank expression. "Think…of a cat," he eventually said.

Harry blinked, and, glancing across the table, saw that Draco shared his puzzled sentiments. "A… a cat?"

"Yes. A cat who has been pursuing a mouse. And, as mice tend to do when they are being hunted, it has scurried into a hole in the wall, where it hides, safe and sound… so long as it remains in its haven."

Harry swallowed but nodded, not particularly liking where this analogy was going. "And so the cat stalks outside of the entrance, prowling back and forth, biding its time… But cats are excellent hunters, intelligent, and, eventually, it realizes—'the mouse will never expose itself if it knows I am here.' And so the cat slinks away, makes a great show of its supposed withdrawal…"

He trailed off here, pausing to take another sip of his tea.

"And then…?" Harry eventually prompted, though he already knew how this story would end.

"You know precisely how this tale unfolds," Snape said aptly. "The mouse eventually resurfaces. The cat, having been waiting silently, just out of sight near the entrance, attacks and catches its prey."

Draco cocked an eyebrow humorlessly at Harry. "I think you're the mouse," he added, quite unnecessarily. Harry glowered at him.

"We _all_ are," Snape muttered, making Draco direct his attention back to him.

"Well, what does that mean for us, then?" Harry asked.

Snape deliberated for a moment, and the long pauses between responses was really starting to become irritating. "…It means that I believe this may be a… temporary reprieve. He is smart. He is cunning. If there is any shred of hope in him left at all, even the tiniest bit, he will proceed to lull you into a false sense of security, and then strike again. He will attempt to catch you off guard, to trick you with his lure when you aren't prepared for it." His eyes narrowed in Harry's direction, accusatory in their nature.

"So _be_ prepared for it."

Harry drank some of his own tea, trying not to groan. His brows were furrowed thoughtfully as he lowered his mug. "How can you sound so sure, that that's what he'll do?"

Snape shrugged. "It's what I would do," he responded. A bit _too_ casually, Harry thought. "But he may not. It is difficult to divine how the Dark Lord will deal with loss. He never has before."

This time, it was Draco who frowned incredulously. "You make it sound like…" His gaze flickered to Harry for a moment, before returning to Snape, "…like he… like he _misses_ him, or something."

"Do I?" Snape responded in an emotionless tone. His face was a stone mask, totally undecipherable. "What a strange and unheard of concept, Draco."

Neither Malfoy nor Harry knew how to interpret or respond to that (though Harry had to resist the nearly overwhelming urge to slide off his chair and hide under the kitchen table, away from Draco's curious stare, never to be seen or heard from again). They fell into silence, and, eventually, Snape stood.

"I have business to attend to," he announced curtly. "Do not disturb me unless there is an emergency."

Snape then swept from the room, leaving the two teenagers to speculate wildly about what 'business' Snape could possibly be attending to within the confines of his bedroom at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But then Harry realized something.

He waited until Snape had gotten a decent head start so that he could jump up and desert Draco in the kitchen, alone. He caught him just as Snape had entered the drawing room.

"Wait! Professor?"

Snape paused, turning on the spot to face Harry in an oddly graceful, fluid motion. He didn't say anything, just raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"How—" Harry felt his face beginning to burn again, and he had to wet his suddenly dry lips before he could get the words out. "How—you said—his _lure_ …" He cleared his throat, hating that his face was growing even hotter, willing it to stop.

"…I only said I could hear him, is all."

Snape tilted his head at him, his eyes fluttering for a moment down to the center of Harry's chest before returning to his face, which may or may not have been on fire at this point. "How did I know that he was beckoning to you with some sort of indescribable summons? Something… alluring, and which you clearly find embarrassing to admit?" Harry's throat felt like it had just swollen shut in shame. Snape smirked. "I hardly need Legilimency to interpret your abysmally obvious body language."

How deeply Harry regretted coming after him to ask. But he'd been worried—terrified, really—of the possibility that Snape had been lying to him; that he really was able to hear his thoughts after all, and that he'd heard the conversations he'd been having with… himself? In the dead of night, and he'd had to know.

Obviously, his fears were for naught, and this was not the case.

Snape fixed him with a dark, scrutinizing stare. But he looked conflicted. Like he was very firmly on the fence about whether or not he wanted to prod Harry further about this, to demand that he tell him in explicit detail what the parseltongue was actually like, what was actually happening… and simply not wanting to know. At all.

Harry did what was probably the most spineless thing in response to that unbearably accurate accusation before Snape could make up his mind.

He turned and walked away. Quickly.

Retreat, full-blown retreat, without even an attempt at a retort or a word of defiant denial, and Harry liked to think that Godric Gryffindor himself probably would have done the same thing in that situation.

Snape didn't pursue him. To say that he was relieved would be a monstrously vast understatement.

* * *

Harry decided to take a break from the piano.

After the last time he had played it… well. He couldn't explain what happened, actually. The only reason he knew anything strange had occurred at all was because of Malfoy, and he said he'd played…he'd said it was… good…

Harry couldn't remember.

So, he thought that maybe he was just overdoing it with the piano playing, and that a bit of an intermission would be a good idea.

…Which left him with precious few options for things to do.

He and Draco had already exhausted the topic of conversation of 'What 'business’ do you think Snape is attending to?', because neither of them had the foggiest idea. Malfoy seemed resigned to believe that he was lying; that he was really just sleeping all day because he was so magically drained, but wanted to sound like he was doing important things nonetheless.

Harry remembered vividly how Snape had taunted Sirius for being locked up, here, in this very house, for that very reason. He felt a tangle of emotion threaten to unravel in his chest at the thought, and for perhaps the first time ever, he was inclined to agree with Draco Malfoy.

And so they read.

And read.

And… read.

And this time it was Harry who was sighing theatrically into the silence of the large, impressive room which was the library.

"What're you reading about?" he finally asked. Draco looked up, and Harry was sure that, were he not still suffering the aftershock of having so recently been verbally abused straight into the wall, he may not have answered.

As it was, Draco shut the book.

"Wandless magic."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. Why hadn't he thought of that? He'd been reading about the history of the first Wizarding War all day (and while Grindelwald's reign of terror was somewhat, if morbidly, fascinating, it was doing little to boost his morale).

"Yeah?" he asked. "Have you managed to learn anything, can you—"

Draco made a snorting noise that answered his questions before they were even asked. "No. It's ridiculously hard. I haven't managed a single bloody thing."

…But Harry had. He'd managed to make a tiny storm in the front room, unintentional as it was. "Can I read that, when you're done?"

Draco groaned defeatedly. "You can have it now if you want," he said as he tossed it in Harry's direction. "I don't think it'll do any good, anyway. It's all complicated theory and it's been utterly useless. To me, at least."

Harry caught the book and began flipping through it once it was in his hands. It _did_ look daunting; the kind of theoretical, academic text that Hermione probably had wet dreams about. He set it down next to him, not really in the mood to try and read something which would require a dictionary every few passages to understand.

"Ugh… This place is horribly boring, isn't it?"

Draco nodded. Then, quite suddenly, he sat up straight, and there was a spark in his eye that caught Harry's attention at once.

Apprehensively so.

Malfoy's leering demeanor was back in full force. His steely gaze was glittering mischievously, and it was aimed right at Harry.

"Where's that snitch?"

* * *

They stood across from each other with unwavering, hostile stares. They were both tired and sweaty, their breathing labored with exertion. The box on the ground between them was shifting as its imprisoned victim fought desperately for freedom, flinging itself against the walls of its confinement—but they paid it no mind.

For the moment.

"Five seconds, this time."

Harry nodded.

Draco stepped forward and lifted the box.

The snitch was off in a flash of glinting gold. It zoomed away in a chaotic zig-zag, over the shelves and to the west side of the library—

"One…"

Their eyes followed it as it shot to the other side of the room—

"Two…"

And back again—

"Three…"

Up, down, beside that giant chest—

"Four…"

Harry's entire body was coiled and tense—

"Five!"

They bolted at the exact same moment. The snitch sensed the onslaught of its predators at once—it shot upwards, feigning left before turning right at a dangerously high velocity. It was getting better at tricking them, and Draco snarled as his fingers closed around empty air rather than the prize—

Harry smirked, lunging forward—but it had fooled him, too; he'd been so focused on catching it as it escaped from Malfoy's grasp that he'd missed the tossed aside, cardboard box completely—he stumbled to one side, cursing as the snitch darted away. It flew under a table, and—

He and Malfoy both dove in the same instant, but all was lost. Harry had physical advantages in many respects, but he was still unused to his broader shoulders and stronger build. Draco, on the other hand, was as narrow and slim as he'd always been, and he slipped under the table with a finesse that Harry couldn't keep up with.

"Fuck!" he shouted at the same time that Draco yelled, "Yes!"

Harry scrambled to his feet, slamming his hands down angrily on the table which Malfoy currently laid under, flat on his back with the struggling snitch in his hand. He was laughing through his strenuous breathing.

"Ten million points to Slytherin!" he boomed joyously as he got to his feet, pumping his fist holding the forlorn snitch up in the air. It fluttered its wings sullenly, acting utterly defeated—which it should have, seeing as it had now been caught no less than thirteen times in the past forty-five minutes alone. "And the crowd goes wild as Draco Malfoy once more defeats the Boy-WhoLived, the Gryffindor Golden child—"

"Shut up!" Harry spat, swiping at him—who was absolutely expecting it, and danced out of the way at once.

"And what's this? He misses—again—he's really lost his touch, ladies and— _ah_!"

Harry caught him by the shoulder the second time. With one forceful push, Malfoy was shoved against a bookshelf, causing several large, heavy tomes to fall to the ground at his feet.

But before Malfoy could even begin to be scared for his life again, Harry had turned away, gone to retrieve the box. "We're going again," he muttered scathingly.

Malfoy smirked. "I don't want to."

Harry's eye twitched violently. He'd known that's what he would say, because for once, for the first time ever in their entire, rivalrous relationship—

"I won."

The current score was six to seven…and Malfoy was in the lead.

"We're going…" Harry picked up the box and held it aloft, glaring, "… _again_."

Draco shook his head, still grinning.

"Nope."

"Yes."

"No, thanks. I'll just take my metaphorical trophy and be done."

"Coward."

"A triumphant one."

…Silence, in which Harry had to resist the urge to cross the room and punch him in the gut.

"One more go, and if you win, I'll…" Harry racked his brains, trying to think of something with which he could barter that Malfoy would be interested in. The Slytherin waited, looking expectant…

"…I'll share the Firewhisky I have stashed away with you."

Draco's leering expression dissipated at once, and he looked like Harry had just told him that, yes, there was a God, after all.

"You have _booze_?" he all but sighed.

Harry sniggered. "I do."

"But—how? Where?"

"Ron brought it to me a while ago. And I hid it somewhere so that even Snape won't be able to find it,” Harry said haughtily. He also made a mental to immediately relocate the bottle from the bottom of his trunk to a better hiding spot the next time Malfoy was in the shower.

Draco's nostrils flared like he thought he really was a dragon, attempting and failing to breathe out flames. _"Weasley,"_ he fumed. "I asked him weeks ago to sneak in some alcohol! I offered to pay him loads more than it was worth—"

Harry laughed far louder than was necessary. "You what?" he shouted. "You tried to bribe Ron in to doing a favor for you?" He laughed again, and Draco looked fiercely sour. "I'm sorry, I don't care how broke he is or how much money you've got, there aren't enough galleons in the world to make that happen."

"Well, my options for bribery were pretty fucking limited," Malfoy spat. "And I wasn't about to ask the m—"

He stopped, faltering for just a fraction of a second—but a fraction of a second was all it took. They both registered what it was he had almost said.

Harry's smile vanished. Draco left his statement unfinished.

"I'll share, if you win," Harry reiterated in a much colder voice.

Draco looked down at the snitch, which had long since stopped making any attempts at escape. "And… what if you win?"

Harry bit his lower lip and he contemplated that. "I don't want anything from you," he finally said, to Malfoy's visible surprise. "Just knowing that I beat you is enough for me. So really, you have nothing to lose."

"We'd only be tied, if you won this round," Draco pointed out.

Harry's eye twitched again. It was becoming a fairly regular tick, given the company. "Right," he agreed, irritated. "Right, guess we'll have to go twice, then."

"Unless I win."

Harry exhaled audibly. "Unless you win," he agreed with ire in his voice.

It was settled. The snitch was once more placed under the box.

"Ten seconds, this time."

Draco tossed the small, golden globe under the box, and Harry was ready, slamming it down over it at once. It immediately began zipping around, smacking into the cardboard walls. They waited for a few moments to let it build up steam. Then Harry lifted the box, and they took their pre-determined positions across from one another.

"Ten…nine…"

The snitch zipped up and down, frantic—

"Eight… seven…"

It banged into the wooden chest—it was really panicky, this time—

"Six…five…"

It headed east, towards the far end of the room—

"Four… three…"

It was beating against the door, like it just knew that freedom from the library was on the other side—

"Two…"

Harry and Draco's focus betrayed them as they heard it. With a rapid-fire _rap rap rap_ , the snitch had caused the slightly unhinged door to open wider. A crack became visible and _it got out_ —

Malfoy took off at that moment, a second too early.

Down the hall soared the snitch, flying at breakneck speed now that it was finally out of the confines of the study. It zoomed around a corner, past the curtained portrait of Sirius's mother.

"You cheat!" Harry roared at Draco's back, murder in his voice.

Well, if Malfoy was going to play dirty, Harry thought, he would, too.

He lunged just as Draco was reaching for the snitch, about to claim it—Harry propelled himself forward like a slingshot so that he collided into Draco’s backside, causing them both to stagger as the snitch got away.

"Ack! You—" Draco spat and as he haphazardly tried to remain on his feet. He clung instinctively to the heavy drapes at his side, but Harry's momentum was too great. They fell forward in a jumbled heap, Malfoy dragging the curtain open along with him as they went—they slammed onto the floor—

There was a pause in which it was deathly silent. Harry and Draco gaped up at the face of Lady Black with horror-filled eyes, and the portrait was momentarily so stunned at her sudden reawakening, her unexpected revealing into the hall of her great house, that she only stared down at Draco and Harry with a similarly bewildered look on her gaunt face.

Harry reached very, very gradually for the curtain, as if, just maybe, she didn't actually see them, and that he could close it without any repercussions if he just…moved…slowly…enough….

She blinked. He braced himself.

 _"Filth!"_ she screeched, and the fabric ripped out of his hand, her wrath in full force. _"Half-bloods in my home! Desecrating my halls!"_

"Malfoy—help me, you prat!" Harry shouted over the screaming. He had jumped to his feet, attempting to close the heavy drapes. It was not easy. Lady Black exerted all her cursed force into keeping them open, so that she could inform the entire wizarding world just how she felt about Harry Potter being in her home.

_"Vile, disgusting abominations! Horrid scum of the Earth!"_

Malfoy finally sprung up, grabbing the other curtain. Then, with a great amount of effort, together, they managed to enclose her behind the heavy fabric once more, and the screaming stopped.

They stood there for a moment in the ringing silence, their chests rising and falling rapidly with their labored breathing, staring at one another…

And then they were off.

At the exact same time, they dashed after the still-active snitch, all thoughts of the screeching portrait of a mad woman immediately forgotten.

They found it in the drawing room. It was zipping about wildly in the air, rapid circles around the glittering portkey on the mantle. They both jumped, but this time it was Harry who had the advantage, as he was now the taller of the two of them. His fingers closed around the fluttering orb while at the same moment Malfoy's hand closed around his own clenched fist. It had been very, very close.

"YES!" Harry roared, ripping his hand away from Draco's angry grasp followed by a "Ha!", right in his furious, pointed face.

"Ten million and one points to Gryffindor!"

Draco looked like he might spit at his feet.

"You're still not winning. We're just tied, now," he reminded him, seething as he stalked angrily for a few paces.

"Let's go again."

"Oh, what's this?" Harry gasped in sarcastic, faux-surprise. "Suddenly so interested in further rounds, now that you know there's Firewhisky within reach, eh?" Harry let the snitch escape for a moment just so he could catch it again—it was still struggling frantically. Apparently, getting out of the library had ignited it with a new sense of vigor.

Malfoy neither confirmed nor denied that statement. "So are we going again, or what?"

"Oh, I dunno…" Harry let the snitch get away, snatching it again a second later.

"Yes."

"Maaaybe…"

"Just a moment ago that was all you wanted to do!"

"Was it? I'm not so certain, anymore…"

"Tck," Malfoy spat resentfully. "You're like a woman."

Harry nearly lost the snitch at that comment.

"What?"

"So indecisive, so all over the place with your crazy mood swings—so _feminine_. Is that why you wear a necklace?" he drawled, his eyes flickering to Harry's chest.

Harry's free hand instantly fluttered to the locket, which had, in fact, come out from under his shirt when they'd tumbled to the floor. He hurriedly tucked it away again, out of sight.

" _I'm_ feminine?" he shouted, feeling oddly defensive of the silver charm around his neck and wanting desperately to divert Malfoy's attention away from it. "You're one to talk! For as much as you yell at me for taking long showers, you spend about three times as long in the bathroom doing your _hair_."

Draco's face began to redden. "I do not—"

"Yes you do." Harry cut him off with a vindictive snarl. "I know you do, because you don't have a wand to do it all proper and fast anymore. Really, Malfoy, why do you bother? Who are you trying to impress—me or Snape?"

"Definitely not Professor Snape."

…It was Snape.

He did not look pleased.

Harry and Draco both jumped at his sudden presence. Harry immediately hid the struggling snitch behind his back.

"What in Merlin's name were you two doing?" the older man asked in a hiss. Not only did Snape not look pleased, he looked… dreadful. There were dark, heavy bags under his eyes, and he was paler than usual, like he hadn't slept in days—which was odd, wasn't it? Harry thought. He'd looked fine just this morning…

"Nothing," they both answered, much too quickly.

Snape glared. He looked first at Harry, then at Draco, then back to Harry again.

"It sounded like a stampede of hippogriffs sprinting down the hall, and you woke the bloody portrait," Snape seethed.

At those words, Harry felt an unexpected surge of the itchiness in his mind, and his grasp on the snitch loosened slightly. It was out of his hands in an instant, but Harry's reflexes were equally fast. The moment it slipped away, he snatched it back again, the movement snappish and quick. It was rather like a toad flicking out its tongue to catch a fly; a cracked whip, out and back in a fraction of a second—

Harry swiftly put his arm behind his back again, as if maybe he had been so fast that Snape might've missed the whole thing.

…He hadn't.

The Potions Master looked murderous. Harry let out a tiny, nervous laugh.

"Give me…" Snape extended his arm slowly, his palm facing upwards. "…The snitch."

"But—"

He pulled his wand out with his other hand. "Now."

Harry looked to Malfoy pleadingly for a moment, as though asking for some kind of support—and if that wasn't strange enough in and of itself, he actually got it.

"But Professor, it's his!" Draco whined. And while Harry knew that it was for his own self-serving purposes that he didn't want their ex-professor to confiscate the snitch, it was still quite bizarre to have Draco Malfoy argue on his behalf.

"Now," Snape repeated. This time his tone was so cold that Harry thought he might have actually broken out into goosebumps. He and Draco shared a miserable expression before Harry, as slowly as he dared, held the snitch out in front of him.

For a moment, he thought he might purposefully loosen his grip just a moment too soon—let the snitch 'accidentally' slip from his grasp and go soaring away again, and wouldn't that be brilliant? To watch Snape try and catch a snitch? But then he glanced at his ex-professor's ashen face, saw those purple and blue bags under his eyes which gave one the impression that he was completely drained, and tired, and stressed—and Harry knew it was all because of him… All _for_ him, really, though that concept was still baffling—and he couldn't do it.

Snape closed his fingers around the fidgety ball and took it with him as he stalked from the room. His robes didn't even billow. Harry felt a powerful wave of guilt.

"Welp," Malfoy muttered gloomily after he'd gone, flinging himself down on the couch.

" _That_ killed an hour."

* * *

"So… are you going to leave me, now?"

The rest of the day had passed uneventfully. When Harry and Draco went to sleep that night, it was in a mutually shared and silent atmosphere.

The cupboard, too, was quiet. With the parseltongue gone, the tiny enclosure felt eerily still.

"Do you want me to leave?" The arms around him loosened slightly. He sounded… dejected. Sad, even.

"No!" Harry answered at once, pulling the arms tighter around him again. "No, I just—I wasn't sure if you would disappear now that the parseltongue is gone. I thought that maybe I only conjured you up to deal with that or something, and that… that you'd…"

"I won't leave you," he said, and Harry felt a rush of relief. "I'll stay with you as long as you want me to."

Harry grinned. "Good. Because Snape seems to think that it may come back, anyway." Harry nearly shuddered in his embrace. "That this may be a ruse, that it's a trap…"

"Hm." Riddle seemed to mull that over for a second. "Yes. I could see that."

There was a long, drawn out pause. Harry was unaccustomed to the silence; it made him anxious.

"I like you, Harry," Riddle said, as though he could sense his wariness. "I like hearing what you have to say. Listening to your thoughts, your dreams, your hopes. You have a beautiful mind."

That was an odd thing for his sub-conscious to say, Harry thought. And… and why did he feel so bashful, at those words? "Aren't you… er, I dunno… a part of that?"

He laughed—a soft, quiet sound that was much gentler than it had been before. "Yes. I suppose I am."

Harry looked over his shoulder again, but he still couldn't see him. It was… annoying.

"Have you ever been in love, before?"

That question certainly caught Harry off guard. "What? In love?"

"Yes."

"Uh… no," Harry said slowly. "And I don't exactly ever see that happening for me, either."

"Why not?"

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, let's see," he muttered. "Well, I am currently trapped in a house with only two other individuals, for I don't even know how long—probably forever, with my luck—nearly the entire world thinks I'm dead, and, oh yeah, I'm being hunted by the most powerful, deadly, and insane dark wizard in existence. Doesn't sound like romance will fit in to my life much anywhere, don't you think?"

"You never know," the voice disagreed lightly. "But for conversation's sake—let's say the war ends, and you emerge victorious. And you have a chance at a normal life. A safe life. The life you've always been denied."

A pause. "…What kind of person would you envision yourself with?"

Harry but his lip ponderingly. He thought of the one and only person he'd felt attracted towards before… before everything. Cho Chang, with her pretty face and sleek, shining black hair… He had thought she was good-looking, had felt embarrassed and flustered around her…

But once he'd gotten to know her a little bit… Well, maybe it was unfair, how their semi-relationship had unfolded. Cedric dying, and then he, Harry, really just not being able to handle other people's emotions—he could hardly deal with his own—and while he thought her quite nice to look at, had enjoyed kissing her (in his dream world, as least, when she hadn't been crying for once) there was something that just wasn't there.

There was no explosive fire, no sensation like he'd been struck by lightning or was burning up from the inside out—and there was definitely not that kind of sensual, appealing draw to her that he had felt when he'd heard—

Harry shook his head, wanting to smack himself in the face. "I don't think there's anyone for me," he concluded sullenly.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because there just isn't."

"You know you don't need to be secretive to me," Riddle said a bit chidingly. "You would only be lying to yourself, and that's really not healthy."

"Hm." Harry frowned, considering that. "I…I don't know. I thought I knew what I liked, before my life became the horrible mess that it is now. I thought I liked dark-haired, Ravenclaw girls. Girl, rather. And I did, I guess. But..."

"…But?"

"But…I didn't know…" Harry struggled to figure out how to put these thoughts into words. It wasn't easy.

Riddle waited.

"…I didn't know… just… I really wish I had never been able to understand—never even heard—parseltongue. It just does something to me that…er…"

"That turns you on?"

Harry groaned. "It does," he lamented. "I'm sure there's a lot more to it than that, which I do not want to think about, but there it is. And it's like nothing else, none of the other things that I used to find... Well, they just don't do it for me anymore."

Harry laughed humorlessly. "Kind of eradicates the dating pool to a sole total of one person, unless there are some other heirs of Slytherin running around in secret. And, somehow, I just don't see a relationship blossoming between me and my horrifying ex-captor who I am currently in hiding from, who would sooner lock me in a box than anything else, as well as kill all of my friends and countless innocents, who killed my parents—who I hate—hate, hate, hate— _hate_!—and—"

He paused for a second, thinking- "And… isn't he like, seventy years old, or something?"

…As if that was really a point of contention compared to everything else he'd just listed.

"Seventy-one, actually," Riddle said, chuckling. "Yes, I think someone younger—and a bit less lethal—would be a better fit for you, Harry."

Harry grinned despite himself. "Oh, just a bit less lethal?"

"Just a bit."

"Ha. Yeah. Well. I'm pretty sure I'm committing myself to a life of abstinence, then. But if you happen to find some younger, less insane parselmouth out there who doesn't want to damn me to a life of horrible containment, you just let me know."

Another bout of soft, endearing laughter.

"Oh, I will."

* * *

The next day was relatively uneventful.

Snape, perhaps because he was still angry about the whole snitch fiasco, or perhaps because he was exhausted, did not make an appearance.

Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but note, did not, for the first time, bother to make his hair slick and perfect. A new behavior which had nearly cost him dearly. Harry had just moved the Firewhisky from his trunk to the interior of the body of the piano, tucked in the corner of the massive, hollow instrument where it would not disturb the chords, when Malfoy had unexpectedly resurfaced from the bathroom much quicker than usual with damp, disheveled hair (Harry, however, chose to still indulge in unnecessarily long showers. He had already accepted that this was now a habit which he had formed for life).

The only interesting thing that happened was that Draco had found himself a new hobby.

Writing.

Harry didn't notice when he'd started; he was just about to attempt playing the piano again, to give it another go, when he had looked up, and there was Malfoy, scribbling away in a book…

Curious, Harry stealthily sat up straighter, craning his neck higher to see if he could make out what it was he was writing (and reminding himself very much of Aunt Petunia as he did)—but Draco noticed the gradual movement, and he snapped the journal shut at once.

And then Harry's heart skipped a beat.

That journal.

That _diary_.

It was the exact same kind of diary that he had once written in himself. That Ginny Weasley had written in. That he had stabbed a basilisk fang in to, that had once belonged to —

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

But Draco didn't seem to notice his stunned expression; only that he had been trying to read over his shoulder.

"Don't," he warned simply as he stood, heading over to the desk on the other side of the room and away from prying eyes.

"Where'd you get that?" Harry gawked after him.

"I found it in Regulus Black's bedroom when I was staying in there. Before I was forced to room with you," Draco said. "Guess he never used it, though. He only got so far as to write his name on the front page." He then sat at the desk with his back to Harry, and continued to write.

Harry stared. And it was the strangest thing, because he suddenly felt a deep sense of loss—of terrible sadness and grief.

But… why? That wasn't so odd, was it? That diary, that sort of book, it was just a standard journal for students, wasn't it? Lots of people probably had that very same one…

So why did he feel so thunderstruck about this? Harry watched the back of Malfoy's blonde head, could see the corner of the little black book as he wrote…

_'The things we lose have a way of coming back to us, in the end…'_

Why would Luna Lovegood's voice come to him now, over this, at the thought of—

_'…If not always in the way we expect.'_

Harry looked back down to the piano keys at his fingertips. He suddenly felt wrong, so very wrong; his stomach was twisted into tightly coiled knots, and as he wet his lips he felt bile rising in the back of his throat, acidic and nauseating. He thought he might be sick.

Shaking his head, he stood. His hands were trembling.

He decided not to play.

Desperate for a distraction from this strange jumble of emotions in his heart, Harry eventually resumed scouring his discarded book from yesterday about the first Wizarding War. After a few hours of tireless, forced reading, he found himself wondering whether there was ever any real victor, in a war, if there was ever any true justification for the actions of either side…and what the words 'For The Greater Good' really meant.

* * *

That night, in the quiet confines of his dreams, Snape's premonition was to come to fruition.

"You've stopped playing."

Riddle's voice sounded darker. It was lower, colder. Like something…was wrong.

"Sorry?" Harry asked. "What\ are you talking about?"

"The piano," he clarified. "…You've stopped playing."

Harry was silent for a moment. It felt like he was being accused of a very serious crime.

"I… yeah. Because, well… I played the other day, and… Well, I think maybe I was overdoing it… Malfoy said it was good, but… I don't remember."

The arms around him tensed, much tighter than usual.

"I did that for you."

"…What?" Why did he feel so…so nervous, now? Almost—

"I found the song. Here, in your dreams. I heard it. I saw you play; I felt in your heart how badly you wanted to make it real… I just connected the dots. It's all here, you know. Every note, every stanza. But that dream song was out of your reach. So, I brought it forth for you. I was your conduit."

Harry was speechless. The silence was smothering.

"…I thought you would like it. I thought it would make you happy."

Was he… offended? Hurt?

"…I…how…"

Still, Harry had no words. He didn't understand, he only knew that—for the first time in the presence of his imagined entity—he felt…scared.

"I've been looking through your memories, Harry. Your soul is… so beautiful." Riddle pulled him closer, and Harry was beginning to feel ensnared, trapped. "It's like your every thought is gilded. They blend together so perfectly, so intricately… It's almost like they were meant to be that way. Interwoven like that. One."

"What are you talking about?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper.

"His soul. _Your_ soul," he sighed. "It's not some superimposed fragment; it's a part of you. It's an extension of you."

At that, Harry found his voice. It came out raspy and strangled. "That's not what he told me," he choked out as he remembered that first conversation he'd had with Lord Voldemort, in that dream world where he'd been unable to even move. "H-he said that I was—that I was an extension of _him_ —"

"He _would_ say it like that, wouldn't he?" Riddle sounded almost amused. "But he was wrong. Or being willfully ignorant. It is an extension of you, Harry… You have a whole soul, a pure soul, and that fragment… It latched on to you. Made a home in your heart and became a part of you… It was only a fraction of what you are, of what it once was. _He_ does not have an entire soul."

A beat of silence.

"…You _do_."

He sounded… bitter.

"What does that mean?" Harry asked.

"It means everything."

Harry thought to struggle, to pull away, but found that his shell-shocked body would not cooperate. He was frozen in this conversation, paralyzed by it, and, as he glanced about the small, dark cupboard, its walls shimmering with the Occlumency barriers, he realized there was nowhere he could go to get away even if he'd tried.

He was trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped.

"I've been exploring your dreams, diving into your memories…your hopes, your fears, your desires… Trying to piece together the mystery of it all. What I could not understand was _how_ did he not know? How did he not know what you were at once? In the graveyard, when he regained a corporal form… He took your blood, he looked into your eyes, he touched your face, and still he did not feel it, did not realize… And so I asked myself: How is it that I could see it so clearly, and he could not?"

Harry remained still, petrified, holding his breathe. Riddle began to trail a hand up and down his arm again, but it did not feel comforting or soothing in the slightest.

"And so I answer myself: Because of what he has become. Time has warped him, mutilated him; turned him into a perversion of what he used to be. He has steeped himself so fully into the Dark Arts that he has no sanity left, no lucid, rational thought… For why else would he—why would he perform such monstrous—after he knew what you were, knew you were one of—"

His hand paused, and it was the first and only time that Harry had ever heard him sound choked up before, consumed by emotion… But when he spoke next, a few seconds later, it was back to its usual, velvety tenor.

"…He has lost himself. And so he would did not think to see his own soul in you, could not even entertain the idea that something so pure, so whole, could be a reflection of himself… Not until he possessed your body by force did he see it…"

He continued to trail a finger along his side. Up and down, up and down…

Harry swallowed, and his throat was inflamed, tight and uncomfortable. "Wh-what… What are you…?" he breathed.

…Did he really want to know?

Riddle's arms froze. He waited a long moment, as though he was planning his next words very carefully. "I am a part of you, but… I am more than that. I am just like you. I was lost in a sea of darkness until you came along. You brought my world to life… "

"What—"

And then it happened. It came from the other side of the barriers like a blaring siren.

_'Answer me.'_

It was the same parseltongue beckoning—but this time it was not silky and smooth; it was not a gentle coaxing, that tempting lure—this time it was a command, absolutely demanding that he answer, and it caught Harry so off guard, had struck something so deeply within him that the response was in his throat completely of its own accord—saying what, he had no idea, it was just _there_ , on his tongue, a primal, wordless reaction—

But then a hand was over his mouth, stifling the unwitting outcry. "No," Riddle said into his ear, and he sounded nothing like he ever had before.

He sounded desperate. He sounded… afraid.

"Stay with me."

_'…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'_

Harry came back to himself, unsure of how that had nearly just happened. He focused on the arms around him, tried to concentrate on anything other than that lure, but it was forcing itself to be heard—

_'…Harry Potter…'_

"No. Don't listen. Stay with me, stay with me…"

Harry clung to the English words, though it took so much effort, so much—

And then his back was arching in horrible distress—for Lord Voldemort, hissing, snarling, lurking outside of the barriers, had begun to claw at the walls, unknowingly digging his nails into the Occlumency shields from the outside. He couldn't break them, however, for didn't even know what they were…

Harry, however, felt everything, and it was unbearable. It was worse than pain, far worse, and if it hadn't been for the arms encircling him and holding his thrashing body in place he knew, without a doubt, that he would have shredded the walls down himself; would have done anything, anything to make it stop. He was clenching his teeth, biting forcefully into the fingers over his mouth—

"Stay with me," Riddle repeated over and over again. A chorus, a mantra.

"Stay with me."

It seemed to go on forever. But eventually…silence.

A heavy blanket of stillness in the small, dark cupboard. Harry's heart beat hard and fast in his chest. Riddle held him, and Harry did not dare to move, was fearful to even breathe too deeply…

The air remained stagnant…

Was he… was he…

_'…Gone.'_

They both stiffened at the unexpected sound. For it was unmistakably _his_ voice: Parseltongue from the other side of the cupboard door. But Voldemort had removed his hands from the barrier; was no longer beckoning with that overwhelming, indescribable lure…

Now, it was just him.

Speaking to a ghost.

_'You are gone.'_

His voice sounded so hollow. Harry would have never thought Lord Voldemort capable of such a tone.

The two within the cupboard remained stock still, their hearts in their throats as Riddle kept his hand firmly clasped around Harry's mouth.

They waited.

Minutes passed, long and heavy, each second containing an eternity of fear. When Voldemort spoke next, his tone was once again vastly different. Not demanding or beckoning. Not hollow or hopeless. Harry couldn't describe what it was exactly; it was something wholly new to him, some emotion which he did not have a name for—but it made him think of glowing embers and red, red eyes.

_'I will light a pyre in your name.'_

…And then he was gone.

It was enigmatic, the shift in the atmosphere. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. Like a cool and subtle breeze over his skin. Then it too vanished.

 _He_ vanished.

And Harry knew, without a doubt—in the bottom of his tangled, twisted mess of a heart—that he was gone forever.

Regardless, he and Riddle remained motionless and curled up against each other on the cot for a long time afterwards. Harry's heart was palpating so erratically he worried it may never beat properly again.

Eventually, finally, Riddle removed his hand from Harry's mouth. Harry ran his tongue over his top lip apprehensively and tasted blood. Was it his own…?

And then, inexplicably, a memory came to him.

He thought suddenly of the time that he had been in the graveyard; when he had been certain he faced death in the form of the newly resurrected Lord Voldemort… Yet then their wands had connected, the Dark Lord's victims had risen, and they had come to his aid so that he might escape the murderous wizard's grasp…

They weren't… _real_ —nothing can bring the dead back to life, not really—but they weren't… _not_ real, either.

Harry then had a moment of clarity.

It easy to separate everything into two categories—dark or light, good or evil, real or imaginary—but the truth of the matter is that few things are so cut and dry. More often than not, they are not strictly one or the other at all, but somewhere in between. Yes, there is black and there is white, but there are infinite shades of gray in between, and really, just because something exists inside one's own head, why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

"You… you s-saved me… You… are you…" Harry broke the vast stretch of silence with words that felt fragile and weak; childish, even, but which he could not help but voice.

"Are you some kind of angel?"

He turned to see if he would be able to make out a face on his savior yet… but no. He saw only darkness. A silhouette in shadows.

Arms wrapped around him again, so warm and soft and now, now they felt nothing but safe, nothing but protective. And even though he couldn't see him, Harry could feel the heat of his breath against his ear, could sense the smile that accompanied his response.

"That… is _exactly_ what I am."

* * *

_  
St. Paul's Cathedral stood proud and tall atop Ludgate Hill. The highest geographical point of London._

_It was a lovely structure. Built in the English Baroque style, it was a famous, iconic symbol of the city for hundreds of years. It was an emblem of faith._

_Of hope._

_The building had withstood the devastation of the Blitz in his youth. They were told it was a miracle, they were told it was a sign. Cut-out, black and white photographs from old newspapers were shoved under their noses—images of the Cathedral, unharmed and unscathed among the smoke and flames and debris—held in front of the faces of the orphans; of the abandoned, the unwanted children of London, and they were told:_

_'This is proof that God exists.'_

_…_

_The Cathedral had survived the muggle war._

_It would not survive his._

_Hundreds and thousands of tourists from all over the world came daily to see St. Paul's, to enter its doors and behold its beauty… and today, August 6th, the Feast of the Transfiguration, was no different._

_The choral evensong was spectacular in celebration of the holy day._

_The organ was mesmerizing. The choir was captivating. Their voices began to crescendo in unison as they reached the climax of their hymn, the final notes of that Song of Peace. The spectators watched in fascination with widened, spell-bound eyes, the music in the hearts, their souls filled with a false notion of rapture._

_The singing slipped seamlessly into screams._

_The walls ignited in flames of black and indigo. The muggles within joined in the chorus, filling the air with their horrified cries before the last notes of the organ had even begun to fade._

_And he watched._

_He and his most faithful observed from the shadows, untouched and unburnt. The dome above them caved in on itself and fell. The stained-glass windows exploded and littered the ground with prismatic shards in gem-colored hues. The muggles screamed in despair as they found themselves trapped in his inferno._

_It was… the most beautiful song._

_They did not endure long. The heat, the smoke, the lack of oxygen._

_So_ weak.

_Once they had all perished, he descended upon the center aisle, towards the nave, his most loyal at his heels. He hovered above the crumbling altar as he brandished the Elder Wand. In a fluid motion, he willed stars into existence. He cradled the cosmos in his arms; bore constellations between his fingertips. His followers watched in awe as he controlled the heavens themselves._

_He lifted his arms above him, and the brilliant lights rose at his command, soaring through the hole in the ceiling where the dome once was. Higher and higher it climbed, until, with a wordless, graceful motion of his wand, they arranged themselves into that iconic symbol. His symbol._

_A snake emerged from within the hollow void in a skull, and the sky bore his mark._

_He folded his hands in front of him._

_He closed his eyes, and they waited._

_…_

_…Like moths, they came to his flame._

_That first wave of aurors. Those boldest defenders of the light. They cast their protective spells as they arrived. Brave, so brave._

_The Order of the Phoenix._

_The Death Eaters._

_How appropriate, these arbitrary names they had chosen for themselves._

_The Order was courageous, yes. But they froze in unconcealed terror at the sight before them. Lord Voldemort, hovering motionlessly above the crumbling altar of this fallen place of worship. Surrounded by enchanted, flaming walls; dark fire which was only being held at bay by his own will and power. Floating above a dozen of his reverent, masked Death Eaters._

_Above the hundreds of muggle corpses._

_…_

_He opened his eyes, and they saw him._

_Knew him._

_It did not matter how he had changed. There was no mistaking such power; no possibility for misinterpreting who he was as he held his arms out on either side of him, the Elder Wand intertwined between the fingers of his right hand. They were paralyzed by the very sight of him, could not even raise a wand against him in their gripping terror…_

_He spoke, and they listened._

_"This is the beginning."_

_And it was the truest sermon St. Paul's Cathedral had ever heard._

_The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters vanished, and the flames exploded in their wake. The entire infrastructure would be wholly consumed in an unstoppable firestorm of black and violet. A roaring, sacred conflagration, the likes of which London had never seen before._

_It mattered very little, which of those members of the Order of the Phoenix managed to save themselves. Those who did would carry his words to the others on their tongues, and all would know, all would understand._

_The message was clear._

_…_

_This is the beginning._

_This is the beginning._

_This is the beginning._


	13. Occlumency Trials

For a long time after he awoke, Harry laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and not at all feeling like moving. Draco had woken up over an hour ago, but Harry had feigned sleep so that he would be left alone, desperately craving some solidarity.

His dreams, his nightmares…

Where did the reality end and the fantasy begin? How much of what he'd been through in the past year was _real_?

What would have happened if he'd answered that parseltongue beckon…?

If Voldemort had heard him… how would he, the Dark Lord, know it was real? How could Voldemort be certain that Harry's response was a legitimate one, and not just some fictional reply from a ghost in his imagination?

Would he just _know_? How could he _know_?

It had been so close… Harry would have done it, too; he would have responded and shredded the barriers and then… then…

Well, Harry didn't know what Voldemort would have done as an intruder into his dream world once more, but he would probably be forced into that crystal prison again, where he could hardly move and he would never escape because he had said forever, and everything was just white, endless white—

Harry’s heart began to pound. He reached his hand up to clutch at his chest, and—

The locket.

His fingers closed around the metal charm, and the most divine thing happened. The mounting panic, the escalating hysteria stopped, was derailed completely…and was replaced with an odd sense of calm.

Of peace.

…Harry let a slow, steady breath as he tightened his grasp on it. _It doesn't matter, what would have happened_ , he thought to himself firmly. _It doesn't matter, because it didn't happen. And it will never happen. He's gone, and I…_

He thought of his faceless savior, his silhouette in shadows…

_‘I will never leave you.’_

_I have something…someone looking over me._

Feeling strangely level-headed now, Harry sat up. It was nearly noon. As much as he was dreading it, he knew he should tell Snape what happened… in as much detail as he dared. It would be worth the awkward conversation if it meant he could be relieved of these damn, foreign mental walls. Snape could have his energy back, and Harry could finally have some peace of mind.

* * *

Harry, however, did not get the chance to speak with Snape all day. He waited patiently for him to resurface, passing the time as he usually did—in the library with Draco—but by late afternoon he was beginning to feel frustrated.

"Do you think he's really that exhausted?" Harry finally asked, closing his copy of 'The Rise and Fall of Gellert Grindelwald'. It was a massive book, and he was already nearly a quarter of the way through it. "Or do you think he's actually doing things?"

"Dunno," Malfoy said off-handedly. He was scribbling away in the journal again, and he seemed to be completely absorbed in whatever it was he was writing about.

Harry sat up a bit straighter. "What if… what if he's actually leaving the house, somehow?" he ventured.

Draco looked up at that remark, lowering his quill. "What? How would he be doing that? There’s so many wards on this place it probably rivals Hogwarts' defensive barriers. He'd have to go to the front doorstep to apparate, at least. And he's not stupid. If he left, and someone recognized him…"

"Maybe he has Polyjuice Potion. Or uses a glamour, like Hermione."

Malfoy cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

"That would be risky. And complicated…" he murmured, though Harry could tell by the look on his face he was at least contemplating the idea. "Why would he do that?"

"To help Ron and Hermione with whatever it is they're searching for, maybe…"

They'd already discussed at length what these items could possibly be, and agreed that they must be some kind of powerful weapons. Powerful enough that they could sway the tides of war in their favor if they found them…

But neither he nor Draco had any idea what kinds of items could possibly do that.

"I dunno… I still don't think he would risk leaving the house. At least not yet, unless it was some kind of emergency," Draco concluded.

Harry got up and stretched, abandoning his heavy book on the couch. "Yeah… You're probably right. I was just speculating."

Draco looked so stunned by the fact that Harry Potter had just told him he was probably right about something that his jaw fell open. But Harry missed the expression entirely; hadn't even registered that he'd said such a thing, as his attention was now focused on the piano on the other side of the room.

Whatever apprehension he'd had about playing the previous afternoon was completely gone today. He ran his fingers over the keys and, without hesitation, began to make music.

To really, truly make music.

It came much more easily to him than it ever had before, and he was so surprised by his sudden technique that he felt giddy. It was like something had clicked since the last time he’d tried to play—some kind of muscle memory that was just inexplicably there, like he'd been practicing for months. And while it wasn't perfect—Harry would occasionally hit sour notes, or fumble ineloquently on the more complicated chords—he thought that, really, that was okay. Better, in fact. The song in his dreams was so perfect, so pristine, that it was truthfully quite eerie. Unrealistic.

Unnatural.

But this—the song that he played now… this was real. This was flawed and human and raw.

This was his Awake Song, and it was alive with every tangled, confusing emotion in his heart. And he knew it was all because of his mysterious savior… He recalled the graveyard again, and the silvery phantoms of the past that had come to his aid, and he wondered vaguely if it was, perhaps, the spirit of his Godfather who had come to save him this time… Brought forth because he was here, in this house, where Sirius Black, too, had once been trapped…

The music filled Harry with hope.

For a fraction of a moment, Harry looked up at the sunflower on top of the piano. It had long since withered, now more brown than it was yellow. Harry was surprised when he unexpectedly made eye contact with Malfoy. Draco was staring at him, quite blatantly, his quill motionless in his hand. It was probably the only time that Harry had ever seen him looking at him with something that was not some varying level of distaste. In fact, he looked… Well, Harry didn't actually know what that look was.

But he couldn't be bothered by it when he was feeling so cheerful. Harry just continued to smile before returning his gaze back down to the keys at his fingertips.

The music went on.

* * *

It was late in the evening, and still Snape had yet to make an appearance.

Harry was beginning to feel both frustrated and wary by this. While he wasn't exactly excited at the prospect of informing the Potions Master of his dream last night, he was more than ready to begin Occlumency lessons and be rid of these itchy barriers. Yet it was nearly nine, and still Snape had not graced them with his presence.

He wondered what would happen if he disturbed him in his quarters. Surely this didn't qualify as an 'absolute emergency', but, well, he should _know_ , shouldn't he? Snape would _want_ to know…

Harry deliberated for another few minutes before deciding—to hell with it. He would go and wake him, and, hopefully, the consequences would not be dire.

"I'm going to go talk to Snape," Harry informed his Draco, who had taken a break from writing to read again instead.

"Oh… Okay." He looked a bit suspicious, clearly wanting to ask why—but didn't.

Truly strange times indeed, Harry thought, that he and Malfoy could now share an exchange without even attempting to insult one another. Harry left, and Malfoy did not follow.

His thoughts were racing (agitatedly) while he walked, trying to plan his words as he approached the Potions Master's room… To tell him about how he knew Voldemort would no longer stalk his nightmares, that he really, truly thought him dead, now… That he was certain they could start Occlumency lessons…

But he didn't need to explain any of this at all.

As fate would have it, Snape had been leaving his room to go to Harry at that exact moment. For the second time, they met in the hallway—yet in this instance, it was Snape who looked startled by Harry's sudden arrival. His face was quite pale, and Harry could have sworn he saw a flicker of terrible trepidation in those ashen features that he was not meant to see. Yet the moment their eyes met, Snape’s fearful expression vanished, and it disappeared so quickly and effortlessly that Harry wondered if he hadn't just imagined it in the first place.

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Snape spoke before he had the chance, and the first words out of his mouth were, for once, exactly what he wanted to hear.

"I believe we can begin Occlumency lessons now."

* * *

He'd really meant it.

No less than fifteen minutes later, and Snape and Harry were standing across from each other in the drawing room. And Draco (who was currently banished from this side of the house while they practiced) had been right—there _was_ a Pensieve here. It was very different than the one that had been in Dumbledore's office, though equally nice in its own way. It was made of black onyx, sophisticated and glossy with Hellenistic-styled embellishments around the perimeter of the basin. It nearly reached Snape's navel, it was so tall and grand, and Harry couldn't imagine a more appropriate object to exist in the House of Black.

Harry examined it as Snape swept around to the other side, standing with his back to him before he began to extract memories from his temple with the tip of his wand…

And then Harry was hit with such a powerful wave of dreadful realization that he nearly swayed and fell over.

For whatever reason, 'Occlumency lessons' had, in his mind, been solely and completely connected only with the blessed relief from the irritating barriers of Severus Snape.

Harry had been so preoccupied by this very welcome and long-awaited respite, in fact, that he had forgotten that 'Occlumency lessons' also meant Snape digging through his most intimate memories in a very aggressive, unconcealed, and dangerous way.

About a dozen questions popped into Harry's mind at the same moment as he watched Snape continue to drop his own silvery thoughts into the Pensieve. Would Snape purposefully look through his more recent, horrible memories? Could he see dreams? Were memories and dreams even connected like that? Harry tried to think—had Snape been able to see his dreams before?

Oh, yes. Fifth year. The locked doors, the hallways. The prickly sensation in his scar—

The Department of Mysteries.

He'd seen that, and that… That had been a dream.

_…Oh dear._

Snape finished siphoning off a particularly long, ghostly tendril into the basin before he turned to face him.

"Have you been practicing emptying your mind?"

_Oh…oh dear._

"Um…"

Harry felt like an utter fool. He had not been emptying his mind in the slightest—in fact, he'd been talking and thinking and pondering more than ever…

"Yes," he lied anyway.

Snape's face betrayed no emotion.

"We shall see… but first." The Potions Master advanced on him. Close, too close—Harry took a step back in retreat, jumpy and nervous as he suddenly was. Snape scowled at him.

"I need to remove the barriers I have in place from your mind," he drawled. "I require you to stand still while I do it… Unless you'd rather me rip them off like bandages. I imagine that would be highly uncomfortable for you." He smirked, giving Harry the immediate impression that it wouldn't bother Snape in the slightest, no matter how he went about it.

Harry swallowed thickly. "O-okay."

"Then remain still," Snape said. He stepped forward again, pocketing his wand and placing his hands on either side of Harry's head, one on each temple, just as he had when he'd first put them in place. Harry tried to keep his face straight, much as he was inclined to show his discomfort.

And then he started chanting.

It was that same, wordless non-language that he'd used before. Snape’s dark eyes bored down into Harry's, and it was oddly hypnotic, mesmerizing… The alien sensation of the barriers began to shift, becoming more uncomfortable for a moment—

But then it began to lessen. The itchy feeling became number, less aggressive…and within moments, the mental wards started slipping away, slowly unraveling like soft fabric deteriorating and sliding through his fingertips.

It was like sinking into a pool of cool, clear water after having spent all day in the blazing heat of a sun-drenched desert. Harry had to suppress the urge to sigh and not simply collapse into a pile on the floor. The relief was so soothing that every muscle in his body relaxed, like they had temporarily been turned to jelly.

Snape finished chanting and removed his hands from his temples. Harry stretched his neck to one side, letting out a low, audible breath.

"Thank God," he muttered.

"You may call me Professor Snape," the older man said without missing a beat, turning to face him and retracting his wand from his pocket.

Much as Harry would have liked to laugh at that, he could not find any humor in this situation— for now Snape was pointing his wand at him, and Harry was hit with another crushing wave of trepidation. He was about to have his memories broken into again, and he had not been practicing, was not prepared even slightly—he didn't even have a wand this time.

Worse still, removing the Occlumency barriers seemed to have had a currently very unwelcome effect on the other wizard. A significant amount of color had returned to Snape’s face, and his eyes were clear and focused right at Harry like he was some kind of lethal predator, ready to strike.

"Are you ready?" Snape asked, raising his wand.

Harry was not ready. He was not ready at all.

"Y-yes."

…Damn his Gryffindor pride straight to hell.

Snape made no comment on Harry’s clearly troubled disposition. "Then focus on emptying your mind, and when you feel my presence imposing itself on your thoughts, concentrate on blocking it off. That will construct a barrier, and, should you be successful, I will be unable to see anything."

"I—what?" Harry balked, unable to stop himself from sounding indignant at such vague instructions. "That's it? That's all the explanation you have?"

Snape's gaze did not even flicker enough to look annoyed. "Yes. There is no way to properly explain the intricate nature of the mind arts in simple words. You must learn by acting and defending."

Well, that certainly didn't make him feel any better. Harry was about to respond, though to say what, he wasn't quite sure—something stupid, probably—but he never got the chance.

Snape’s stare was like a laser.

_"Legilimens."_

…And into memories they fell.

Harry didn't even feel his 'presence' as Snape prodded his way into his mind, it was just suddenly there, the mental landscape…and it was the most welcome sight of all.

Hogwarts.

Outside, on the grounds, to be precise, and Harry was about to face the dragon.

He grinned widely as he observed himself, summoning his broom from the castle… which currently resided in his bedroom, he remembered suddenly, which his Godfather had given him… and there it was, soaring into his hands, and he was off…

Maybe it was a bit arrogant of him, but really, Harry thought, as he watched himself soar through the air with a fierce look of determination on his face—he _was_ a good flier. He ducked and zoomed and twirled agilely out of the way as the dragon lashed out at him, attempting and failing to knock him from the sky—oh, no, it managed to graze his shoulder that time, and they crowd gasped in shock—he remembered that—ah, but he was about to make up for it spectacularly, here—

"You are not even trying."

The memory fell away. Harry found himself back in the drawing room… across from a very disgruntled Severus Snape.

"Er… sorry," Harry mumbled.

Snape's glower deepened considerably. "Tell me," he sneered, "what is it we are doing, precisely?"

"…P…practicing Occlumency, sir."

"Are we?" Snape drawled, feigning shock. "Are we really?"

Harry nodded uneasily.

"Then, for the sake of both of us, put forth some effort this time around. I know it shall be incredibly difficult for you, but try not to be so caught up at the sight of your own useless skills as to forget what it is we are trying to accomplish. As much as I am sure you would like to do nothing but stare at yourself all day, our survival is at stake."

Harry frowned but said nothing, only nodded again. Snape lifted his wand. His eyes were narrowed in tangible dislike.

 _Well, this certainly doesn't bode well,_ Harry thought anxiously. But, once more, he had little time to gather his scattered thoughts before—

_"Legilimens."_

He felt it, this time.

Before a memory came floating forward, he felt… something. Like a shadow on his thoughts—not necessarily painful or uncomfortable, but… unwelcome. He tried to will it away as it approached, tried to empty his mind…

Was that… was that Privet Drive…? No, don't focus on that… Empty your mind…

For a split second, it shimmered, white and hazy, and the memory looked strange—foggy—but then Snape broke through, Harry couldn't force it away. The world around them became crisp and clear.

"Stay still!"

Aunt Petunia's shrill command grated on Harry’s ears like nails against a chalkboard. They were in the kitchen at his old house, and there he was, a small, thin child—God, had he really been that tiny? —and Petunia was, none too gently, hacking away at his hair.

The young Harry was crying. Valiantly trying not to, but the tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes like little shimmering rivers down his cheeks, fogging up his too-big glasses.

"And stop pouting!" Petunia snapped, grabbing another handful of hair. Harry—the child—sniffled.

"You're _hurting_ me—"

"It wouldn't hurt if you would stop moving."

But watching it from this point of view, Harry could see just how awful his aunt really was. He hadn't been moving at all, and she was clearly pulling far harder than was necessary. She cut off another fistful of hair, and his child-self let out a horrible, choked sob—

Harry felt his blood beginning to boil at the sight, but closed his eyes instead, trying not to let the emotion overwhelm him… Empty your mind… Empty your mind… Empty—

The child in the chair let out a tiny, high-pitched yelp. Petunia snarled.

"You moved!" she chided angrily, and when Harry opened his eyes it was to see him with a tiny hand pressed against his scalp.

"Oh, enough of this." His Aunt stood and reached for something on the counter. A moment later and the buzzing sound of something electric filled his ears.

"I'll just shear the rest off."

The young Harry Potter was openly crying now, but Petunia seemed wholly unaffected by the sound. Tufts of hair were falling to the floor, save for his bangs to 'cover that horrid scar'—

The memory fell away.

Snape stared but said nothing. Harry suppressed a mortified groan.

"It grew back the next day," he muttered. He wasn't sure why he felt that it was important that Snape know this, but he did. "My first bit of accidental magic, in fact." He scoffed as he recalled his Aunt’s expression when she'd woken him up the next day for school. "I thought she was going to cut my head off that morning."

To his surprise, Snape looked rather sour. "Petunia Evans is an exceptionally nasty human being," he stated with ire evident in his voice.

"Yeah…she—wait." Harry paused, suddenly confused. He quirked an eyebrow in Snape's direction. "You say that like you knew her."

And he'd called her _Petunia Evans…_

For a brief moment, Harry thought he saw the tiniest, most fleeting emotion cross Snape's features, like he had touched upon some truth which he had not been meant to. But a moment later and Snape's deeply resentful glower—the one that he seemed to reserve especially for Harry—was back in place.

"Most unfortunately, I have had the displeasure of needing to gather more information about you and your terrible muggle relatives in the past year than I ever would have wished to," he drawled before raising his wand for the third time. "I did, however, feel some fraction of resistance that time. Try to focus more on my presence and less on the memories that I attempt to break into—and then on dissipating the memory entirely. You will feel it like an abstracted blockade, at that point. Focus on that."

Harry nodded shortly, taking a deep breath.

_"Legilimens."_

There… He definitely felt it… Snape's cool, shadowy infiltration, and then something was coming into focus… He could hear people chatting, talking… Empty your mind, Empty your mind…

It shimmered, and that presence, which had been rather gentle before, became more aggressive, pulling the memory towards it… No, will it away… Empty your mind…

It was like a strange game of reverse tug-of-war which lasted only a few moments. Harry pushed, Snape pulled, and Snape won.

Madame Puddifoot's coffee shop.

And there was Harry, and there was Cho, and it was Valentine's Day.

 _Great,_ Harry thought miserably. Snape had just seen him get his head shaved by his evil aunt, and now he was about to witness the one and only date he'd ever gone on go catastrophically wrong… He would probably relish forever the sight of Harry Potter being so romantically inept that girls cried at his very presence, storming away in dramatic, theatrical displays of emotion…

How he wished that was what happened.

"Cho," Harry's memory-self said seriously, and her smile faltered at the tension in his voice. He looked very confident, completely untroubled by her presence as he had been in reality. His memory self grabbed Cho’s hand, looking deep into her eyes as he did.

Real-Harry was smacked with a cold wave of clarity at the realization that this…

This was the dream.

 _The_ dream.

"I apologize for being so forward… But I just have to say it. You're beautiful, I thought so from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Would you mind very terribly if I kissed you?"

Oh, no, oh god—empty your mind, _will it away_ —

But Harry’s panic was too high, too much, and Snape must have sensed that, for he suddenly exerted far more energy into remaining present, and it was impossible to rid himself of it—

They were kissing, and—Harry couldn't help but actually be distracted for a moment—he was quite good, wasn't he? He'd even gently bitten her lower lip at the end—he didn't remember doing that, but it was a nice touch, it really looked like he knew what he was doing—

"Cho…" His memory's voice was husky and low as he pulled away from her star-struck face. "I don't know how else to say this, and don't be alarmed… But, how would you feel if I told you we were being watched?"

Oh god, no, no, no, _no_ —Snape can't see this—will it _away_ —

But then it was happening. Harry's stomach dropped.

"Are you familiar with the phrase…'Peeping Tom?'"

…

…Why, it looked even more surreal the second time around.

There was Lord Voldemort—tall, dark, imposing figure that he is—surrounded by blushing cherubs and pink confetti, the sunlight pouring in from the wide, open windows, illuminating him from behind—and there was Harry, turned in his chair and just _leering_ at him, smirking, and God, he really did look like a smug, little asshole, didn't he?

If looks could kill, Harry Potter would have died at the Dark Lord's hand after all, because the hatred in his gaze was palpable even in the memory. Yet his dream-self looked nothing but delighted by this, laughing and smiling widely with a mischievous, Cheshire-cat grin —

Snape's escapade into his memories ended quite abruptly this time around. Harry staggered and nearly fell to his knees, so jarringly had he been mentally dumped back into the drawing room.

The look on Snape's face almost made the following conversation worth it.

His jaw was hanging open, his eyes wide and his brows raised in complete and utter shock. He was staring at Harry like he'd just sprouted an extra head. Except even _that_ would have made far more sense than what he'd just witnessed.

Harry… could not attempt to so much as think of a way out of this one.

There was a long, terribly awkward pause, in which Snape's expression (which Harry would have found hilarious in any other given situation) remained so still that he could have passed for a rather unattractive mannequin.

But then—

_"When in the seven hells did that happen!?"_

Harry never would have guessed that Snape's voice could sound so shrill.

Harry stared fixedly down at the ground, his face burning so badly he probably could have boiled water on it. It took him many attempts at opening and closing his mouth before he could form a single word, and even then, he didn't know what to say.

"…It…" he swallowed, taking a breath—

"…didn't."

…That was all he could come up with. Harry dared to glance briefly up at Snape again, whose face was still frozen in that shocked expression that really was quite unbecoming.

Another pause.

_"What?"_

Harry stared at the floor again. He scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat.

"Well, that was a good session, don't you think?" Harry said much too quickly in a voice that was much too high. He turned and went for the exit, making a hasty retreat. A spell hit the door before he could even reach for the handle, and the lock clicked in place.

_Oh, damn._

"Explain."

Harry turned slowly—very slowly—and when he faced the Potions Master again, it was to see that he had finally managed to recover from his fixed expression of disbelief. He was glowering, vindictive and impatient.

Harry laughed nervously. It sounded like a giggle more suitable for a ten-year-old girl than a seventeen-year-old male.

"Explain," Snape repeated, his voice now ominously low.

Harry wet his lips, feeling so uncomfortably hot that he half-hoped he would burst into flames, if only to put off this conversation for just a moment longer.

"It… it didn't happen," he repeated.

"Of course it did," Snape snapped, crossing his arms. "Legilimency in this respect is infallible in terms of truthful visualization, as you are nowhere near possessing the skill required to create false memories—I was _in your mind_ , boy, that must have happened at some point, even—"

He abruptly stopped talking, and Harry saw the dawning comprehension in his eyes.

"…That was a dream."

Harry could say nothing. His gaze was downcast again, but he nodded.

"He… infiltrated your dreams, when you were asleep."

"…I…sometimes," Harry confirmed weakly, not looking up.

Silence again, in which Harry knew that Snape was rapidly putting together the pieces of a puzzle with a very unwelcome, unhappy image.

He, Harry, kissing Cho—Lord Voldemort, looking absolutely furious at the sight—Harry, calling the Dark Lord a Peeping Tom, suggesting that this was not the first time that such a thing had occurred—

Lord Voldemort, having been strangely busy after Harry had gone missing, delegating tasks to others in a very uncharacteristic manner… Mysteriously distracted, not telling anyone where he was going, what he was up to…

When Harry finally glimpsed back up again, it was to see that Snape's eyebrows had risen so high on his forehead that they practically disappeared behind his curtain of long, dark hair. He looked like a caricature of himself.

Harry could not say or do anything. When Snape spoke next, his voice was completely flat. Evidently, his quota for all possible emotion had been used up for the day.

"We shall reconvene and begin again tomorrow."

A wordless spell hit the door and Harry bolted from the room the moment he could.

As it was getting late anyway (and because he wanted nothing more than to bury himself under a mountain of blankets and hide from the world—a state of mind that seemed to be happening on a daily basis lately), Harry went straight to his room. Draco was there, already in his pajamas and propped up against a stack of pillows. He was writing again. The lamp on the bedside table illuminated one side of his face. When Harry entered he glanced up.

"How'd it go?" he asked off-handedly, his attention already shifting back towards his journal. He seemed not to notice Harry’s flustered bearing at all.

The sight of the little black book still made Harry feel uneasy. He turned away, not even bothering to change his clothes before disappearing under several layers of heavy, shielding covers. He was quite ready for this day to be done.

His response to Draco's question was a muffled by a thick wall of blankets, his head half-buried into his pillow.

"Oh, like a _dream_."

* * *

Riddle was especially perceptive that night. Harry had barely fallen asleep before the voice was in his ear, pulling him into the still, quiet bleakness of the cupboard.

"You're extremely tense."

Harry blinked in the darkness, sitting up straight on the cot. He felt hands on his shoulders, and they began slowly applying pressure there, rhythmic and steady…

"Mmmm…" he hummed gratefully as Riddle began to massage his back—quite expertly, he had to admit. "A savoir and a masseuse," Harry muttered, smirking. "You really must be an angel, after all."

He laughed, and the sound made Harry's stomach turn in the strangest way. It wasn't…entirely unpleasant.

"Yes," he responded, his hands moving between his shoulder blades on either side of his spine. "But only for you."

"Mm."

"You played the piano today."

Riddle sounded genuinely happy about that. Harry nodded.

"You were good," he went on, continuing his gentle—but not too gentle—ministrations, moving to the base of Harry’s spine. "Very good. It was even better than the song I heard in your dreams. In your memories."

Harry was listening, he _was_ , but he was finding it difficult to focus on his words when he was too busy focusing on how good his hands felt on his aching muscles… which he hadn't even realized were aching, before. But they had been… Ever since his little episode, since he'd accidentally conjured up lightning, they'd been stiff and tense…

"Uh huh," he managed to mumble—barely.

"Do you feel better?" Riddle’s hands began to slowly make their way back up to his shoulders. "Now that the foreign Occlumency barriers are gone?"

It took Harry a moment to realize that he'd been asked a question.

"Ah… sure."

Riddle chuckled softly and stopped rubbing his shoulders. Harry's lower lip automatically stuck out in disappointment.

"You would just blindly agree to anything I ask when you're like that, wouldn't you?" Riddle said slyly. But he didn't give Harry a chance to answer, just wrapped his arms around his chest again and pulled him towards him.

"Do you feel relieved, now that Severus Snape's oppressive shields are gone?" he tried again.

Harry sighed, leaning back against his savior's chest. "Yes. But it's a bit terrifying, not having anything there…" He peered through the darkness towards the cupboard door, which was still and in focus—no magical, mental barriers there to cause it to shimmer… If the Dark Lord were to appear here, now… Why, he could just walk right in, couldn't he?

Except… could he? This was still Harry's dream…

He had power, here.

So… why was he still in the damn closet?

"Then you must learn to construct you own," Riddle said. Harry groaned.

"I dunno if I can, truthfully," he admitted. "I started Occlumency lessons, but I'm just a dreadful as I've always been."

"What do you mean?" Riddle asked.

"I just can't do it. I can't 'empty my mind', I don't know why… and that seems to be the basic trick to being able to do all of it, to fending people off and to constructing shields. If I can't do that, I'm just…"

He moaned again, looking up at the boarded ceiling of the underside of the stairs.

"I'm doomed."

Riddle made a low, thoughtful noise as he began to trail a hand gently down Harry’s arm. Harry had to resist the urge to ask him for another back massage. He'd really been enjoying it.

"Not necessarily," Riddle murmured. "I believe… emptying your mind is a poor method for you, Harry. I believe there is a better way."

"Yeah?" Harry said, tensing slightly. But his muscles relaxed again a moment later as, blessedly, his miraculous angel began rubbing his shoulders again.

"Yes," he confirmed. His breath was warm against the base of Harry's neck. "Your mind is complex, Harry. Intricate. Severus Snape may have a corner of his psyche that is nothing but a vast void of _nothing_ to which he can escape when he wants to practice Occlumency… but you don't."

Harry snorted, briefly revisiting the notion that maybe this was, in fact, a spiritual force connected with his Godfather.

"So rather than attempting to focus on nothing, perhaps you should instead focus on a specific feeling. Try to bring to mind a sense of calm through a memory. A moment of peace."

"A moment of peace?" Harry repeated, slightly dazed. Riddle was really, really good with his hands…

"Yes. When you next try to clear your thoughts, rather than attempting to bring to mind the abstract idea of nothingness…" He moved his hands lower, earning a low, appreciative moan from Harry's lips, "Think of this. How you feel right now. Calm. Relaxed."

Riddle laughed when Harry failed to respond, lost in bliss as he was. He stopped to pull him back into an embrace, his arms warm and safe…

"Are you at peace, Harry?" he asked softly.

Harry smiled, reaching up to hold his savior's hand, which rested against his chest. He'd never done that before, and he was surprised when he felt Riddle’s stiffen slightly, like he hadn't anticipated it and wasn't quite sure how to respond to such a simple action… But then his angel's fingers wrapped around his own, and Harry felt the sudden, unexpected sensation of something like a hundred butterflies being released into his ribcage, fluttering and wild and…

And… it wasn't… bad.

"Yes," Harry answered, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded.

"Always, when I'm with you."

* * *

Harry was feeling marginally better about Occlumency the next morning.

…Marginally.

He’d been hopeful that he would have most of the day to prepare for it. That he could spend the morning drinking his tea in silent contemplation, perhaps even play the piano for a few hours to calm his rattling nerves.

His hopes were in vain.

Harry had just put the kettle on (and Draco was still in his usual morning phase of 'physically present but mentally absent') when Professor Snape entered the kitchen, looking much more refreshed and alert than he ever had since staying in this house.

And Harry knew why, of course. Because he was no longer having all his energy poured into up-keeping mental barriers which were not his own.

"You," he said, pointing a wand at Harry, which caused him to jump instinctively. "We will resume Occlumency lessons as soon as you've had breakfast. You—" He pointed at Draco now, who was yawning, "—are to remain out of the drawing room while we practice. Is that understood?"

Malfoy nodded drowsily, still too tired to be bothered by this command.

"Good," he said, looking back to Harry. "And be quick about it. If you make me wait more than ten minutes, you will regret it." And with that ominous, unnecessary threat, Snape turned and left, his cloak swishing grandly behind him as though it, too, had a newfound vigor.

Harry poured the boiling water into his mug, suddenly not hungry in the slightest. He made a cup of tea for Draco, too, who had fallen into a chair at the table emotionlessly.

"He's a ray of sunshine," Draco muttered before taking a tentative sip.

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's ever-present enthusiasm. "You both are," Harry said.

Draco grunted, and it reminded Harry so much of Ron that it made him smile while at the same time filled him with profound sense of sadness. Life really was strange in the House of Ghosts, wasn't it?

* * *

When Harry entered the drawing room no less than ten minutes later, it was to find Snape siphoning his memories into the Pensieve again.

"We shall practice today until noon," he said with his back to Harry as he dropped another silvery coil into the onyx basin. Harry glanced at his watch—it was nearly nine thirty. He observed silently as his ex-professor worked, extracting strands of thoughts from his mind. He wished desperately that he could do the same thing. What he wouldn't give to empty out of all his deepest, darkest, and most embarrassing secrets before they started… But he had a pretty good idea what Snape's response would be to that request.

The Potions Master turned to face him. "I shall expect nothing but your best efforts in that amount of time. Is this clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered morosely. Well, at least Snape seemed just as inclined to not mention the horrifying truth of what he had uncovered last night as Harry was.

Yet as Snape lifted his wand and pointed it in his direction, Harry got the unnerving feeling that the older wizard was not going to go easy on him. Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself—

_"Legilimens."_

His presence was obvious, now. Harry's vision became clouded by white, muggy and hazy… Something was coming in to focus, some memory… No, don't focus on that, he thought, don't let him pull it forward…

He thought he heard… he thought he heard music…

There was dancing… It was the Yule Ball, he could tell, but it was still out of focus… clouds of white blurred the scene, making it look more dream-like than ever…

And it _was_ the dream, Harry could tell. The way the music sounded, the sheer volume of dancers which he did not recognize—no, he would not allow Snape to see any more, _empty your mind, empty_ —

But wait—no, what was he supposed to try? To focus on—

_A moment of peace._

Harry closed his eyes and recalled the feeling of arms around him, feeling calm and relaxed and safe. He breathed in slowly. He exhaled, and it was a long, steady plume of air that escaped his lungs…

…The music faded…

He opened his eyes, and everything was a shrouded and foggy, blank and undecipherable…

The shadowy presence was still there, though; Harry could feel it attempting to pull the memory back into focus, but he would not allow it, not this time… He closed his eyes again and concentrated on that memory, of being at peace…

When that dark force prodded at him next, Harry coolly and serenely willed it away, and it was as if he had raised a mental hand to stop it… It was a wall, a shimmering, illuminating barrier, and it was his, and it was _working_ —

And then it all vanished. Harry opened his eyes to the drawing room, smiling.

"I… I did it!" he shouted disbelievingly. "I stopped you!"

Snape, however, did not seem to share his excitement. In fact, he looked angry… and very suspicious.

"What?" Harry asked, his grin faltering. "Didn't I do it right, for once?"

"Yes."

Snape glared. Clearly, he had not expected it to go like that at all. He was also anything but complimentary. Without further comment, he pointed his wand at Harry's chest, looking much more intimidating this time.

"Again," he muttered. _"Legilimens."_

The world dissolved, and in its place another landscape began to form…

White.

His blank, white dream world, and at first it was completely silent and empty. Was Snape trying _purposefully_ to snoop around in his dreams from the past year? Harry took another deep breath, about to bring to mind that same sensation of tranquility—

The single note of a piano struck him like bolt of lightning.

It was crisp and clear and resonated throughout the world of white, and the empty air was waiting for his music…

Another note, and then another, and soon a beautiful melody was infiltrating his very soul… Harry turned and looked, unable to help himself… and there he was, playing like he was some kind of musical prodigy…

His dream-self's eyes were closed, and he… he had been singing, sort of. It was just the occasional wordless note, harmonic and low…

Then his expression flickered, became darker, and the song shifted too. It became hopeless and despairing, and this sinister new rhapsody pulled at his heartstrings, filled him with terrible grief, because he knew, he remembered—that had been the moment when he'd truly believed that he would never wake up.

There… there was the Dark Lord, silently observing, his face a bloodless mask...

Harry felt the shadowy presence of Snape's mental prodding, sudden and unwelcome, and he nearly had a heart attack. He'd allowed himself to get so caught up in his own song, in his own memory, that he'd momentarily forgotten that _Snape_ was trying to watch,too.

_Don't panic. Can't panic. Calm, be calm…_

Harry took several deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and recalled that same state of peace.

Warmth, protection, safety…

The music became quieter, softer…and then was gone.

A shield, a wall. Harry felt that dark energy attempting to sink its claws into his memory, to pull it back, and he thought,

_'Be gone.'_

…And it was so.

Snape pulled, Harry pushed, and Harry won.

This time, it was he, Harry, who brought them back to the physical realm. Grimmauld Place formed around them, and—

 _Why_ did Snape look so mad?

"How did you manage that?" he snapped at him, seething.

"I—like you told me!" Harry said defensively. "I emptied my mind, I formed a barrier… R-right? Isn't that what I was supposed to do?"

Snape nodded so shortly it was hardly discernable.

"So—why—what's the problem, then?"

Snape glowered for a long moment before responding. "How did you make such monumental progress in such a short span of time?" he asked quietly, seemingly asking himself as much as he was asking Harry.

"I… practiced?" Harry answered feebly. "I dunno… something just clicked, I guess."

Snape continued to look accusatory and doubtful.

"Again," he finally snarled. "And this time I will not be gentle. Let's see how much has truly 'clicked'… _Legilimens_!"

The world whisked away and they were rushed into a gloomy, dismal place—

A thrill of terror swept up Harry's spine at once. He knew this room, he knew this hall, was aware before it had even fully formed, and his fear prevented him from focusing—

The Department of Mysteries.

How many times had he come here in his nightmares? In reality?

Which memory would this one be?

Would he once more witness the death of his Godfather?

Would he watch in horror as Sirius's mangled corpse emerged from beyond the veil?

_Harry…Harry…Harry…_

"Harry…"

The last whisper was not from beyond the fluttering fabric. And when Harry turned to look, his heart lurched in his chest, lodging itself in his throat and preventing him from drawing breath—

"Step away from the veil, Harry."

The Dark Lord spoke in an authoritative, cold tone.

No, oh no—this—this could not happen—

Harry felt Snape's imposing force, and it was much more aggressive this time, latching on with razor sharp talons, rather like when Voldemort himself had torn through his thoughts. It was painful and horrible and _this could not be happening_ —

Harry's dream-self laughed. "Why? Oh, because you would like to do the honors. Right." He held his arms out wide, mockingly. "Well, what are you waiting for? If you think it will work, kill me."

No, no, no—stop panicking—peace, think of—

"Strike down your mortal enemy in his dream."

Snape was relentless. Harry tried to concentrate, but the pain was distracting—

"I am not here to kill you, Harry Potter."

No, no, no—If Snape saw this—if he—Harry couldn't—

"That's a shame…"

He couldn't—

_Breathe._

And then he felt them. Arms around his waist that were not possessive or hungry, but warm and protective, and the word being spoken softly in his ear…

_Breathe._

Was he really there, with him, or was he imagining it? But… the sensation was real, the feeling of serenity, of…

Peace.

…The memory vanished.

Plumes of foggy haze smothered the scene of the Department of Mysteries, and with a steady, well-directed thought, Harry pried Snape's influence from his mind.

They descended back in the drawing room. Harry caught a flicker of pure shock pass over Snape's face before he looked furious again.

_"How-!?"_

But Snape's outburst was cut short by the most welcome of interruptions.

They heard a _crack_ from down the hall, outside the front door. They both turned to look, and then, just a moment later, the door swung open.

"Ron," Harry breathed. A tall, gangly, red-headed boy gave him a giant smile. Then—

_"Hermione."_

She beamed at him, her grin discernible even with the glamour in place. Harry felt like the sun had just emerged from behind a dark, ominous cloud.

"You're back!"

They rushed forward, and the three shared an embrace quite reminiscent of when Harry had first approached them after arriving at Grimmauld Place. Snape hardly had the patience for such greetings.

"You're early," he drawled.

Harry frowned at him as Hermione and Ron stepped away. Typical, that Snape would not bother to tell Harry that the reason they were only to practice until noon was because he was expecting Ron and Hermione to return.

 _God forbid I actually have something to look forward to,_ Harry thought bitterly.

But he could not remain sour for long. The warm presence of his two best friends was more than enough to keep a smile fixed on his face.

"Yes, we are, aren't we?" Hermione said as she checked her watch, finding that it was only eleven. Also typical that Snape would manage to be angry at his ex-students for arriving ahead of schedule.

"Were we interrupting?" Ron said, looking back and forth between Harry and Snape apprehensively.

"Would you like us to leave, should we—?"

"No," Harry said, cutting Hermione off. He was surprised that Snape did not disagree. "No, we were just practicing Occlumency…"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise. _"Really?"_ she asked. "Already? But—but that's wonderful!"

"Yeah, once you get the hang of it, we can finally tell you what's going on!" Ron added cheerfully—but then he backtracked, looking anxious as his eyes darted to Hermione- "Right?"

"Right," she agreed happily. Ron exhaled. "Though it may take you awhile to really become well-versed in creating relatively permanent barriers. It took Ron a few months."

"Maybe it will be sooner than you think," Harry said coolly, glimpsing at a glowering Potions Master.

Snape waved his hand in front of him dismissively. "Enough. You, out. We have work to do."

"But—!" Harry started. They had just gotten back!

"You can have your joyous little reunion later. We have important matters to discuss. Miss Granger, please dispel of that glamour. Mr. Weasley, unless you are attempting to catch and consume flies, I would recommend that you close your mouth. …Evans," He pointed at Harry again, and what was it with him and looking like it made him sick to call him that?

"Go stay with Draco, and do not disturb us." Snape flicked his wand at the door, which flung open.

And just like that, Harry was banished. It took a great amount of effort to not knock something over in a fit of rage on the way out. Perhaps Malfoy's childish behavior was starting to rub off on him. Scowling, Harry marched from the room, ignoring Hermione's pitying look. The second he stepped into the hall the door slammed behind him and locked itself shut.

He found Draco writing again in the library. He was in his usual spot at the desk, a quill in hand with the journal opened about midway through. It seemed he had written quite a lot…

He didn't look up when Harry entered. "Was it like a dream again?" he asked dryly.

"Naturally."

Harry sat at the piano bench, still feeling deeply resentful. "Ron and Hermione are back."

Draco stopped writing. "They are?"

"Yeah. But Snape told me to piss off the moment they got in. You know, 'important business' to talk about…."

Draco closed the journal, turning around in his seat. "They didn't even tell you where they've been?"

"Not yet."

Malfoy looked towards the door pensively, tapping a finger against his chin.

"…They're in the drawing room?"

"Yep."

"And they just got in."

"Uh huh."

He paused, glancing at the door and back again.

"…I'm going to go eavesdrop."

"What, you're just going to listen outside the door?" Harry asked shrewdly. Draco nodded.

"Go knock yourself out."

What Harry didn't bother to say was that in _his_ experience at Grimmauld Place, eavesdropping had never ended well for anyone involved… But he wasn't about to ruin that experience for his dear friend Malfoy. Draco slinked away with a mischievous smirk on his face, like he thought he was ever so cunning. Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the piano, hoping to rid himself of his agitation.

…Draco wasn't gone long.

Harry's playing had only just gotten started when, he heard a bang, a yelp, and some muffled shouting. Shortly thereafter, Malfoy was marching back into the library, rubbing his shoulder and swearing under his breath.

Harry tried not to laugh. "How'd it go?" he asked lightly as Draco flung himself angrily onto the couch.

Malfoy glowered at him. "I was just outside the room—I didn't even make a sound!—and then, somehow, he hits me with a stinging hex through the damn door! And he yelled something about how I'm worse than wormtail… and I'm pretty sure he put a silencing ward around the door afterwards, too, because then I couldn't hear anything at all."

He looked up at Harry. "What the hell is a _wormtail_?"

Harry's expression darkened. "It's a who, not a what. And he's a traitorous, filthy rat."

Draco didn't seem to notice the depth of the hatred in Harry's voice. "Whatever," he muttered, examining his apparently throbbing shoulder. "Stupid asshole…"

Harry didn't think he would ever get over the strange dynamic of the individuals in this household. To think, Snape used to dote on Malfoy. "Did you at least hear anything before he got you?" he asked, curious.

Malfoy's gray eyes glittered, and Harry had his answer before he even spoke.

"I _did_ hear something," he said, leaning forward. "Something _good_."

Harry waited but didn't say anything, if for no other reason than he could tell that Draco was just waiting for him to beg and tell him.

"Something _really_ good," he prompted. He dangled the words in front of him like bait.

Harry rolled his eyes again. "Whatever did you hear, Malfoy?" he asked blandly.

"I'll tell you if you share the whiskey."

Harry suppressed a smile—he was going to be able to use the promise of alcohol to manipulate Draco forever. "Hm…" he said, pretending to contemplate that offer.

"Nah."

_"What?"_

Harry smirked at the way Draco uncrossed his arms, nearly jumping to his feet.

"Nah, you keep your secret information to yourself… Even though I'm sure it's _really_ good."

Malfoy glared at him venomously, crossing his arms again as he tapped one foot irritatingly. Harry started to play the piano, acting like he did not notice Draco’s impatient disposition, because he just knew that he wouldn't be able to keep whatever information he'd just garnered to himself. He would want to share it with someone, and, seeing as he only had the one option…

He cracked in about two minutes. "Ugh, fine!" Draco spat, standing up and crossing the room to lean against the piano. He loomed over Harry, casting a shadow down across the keys at his fingers.

"Gringotts." He said it as though it was the single, most impressive word in the world.

"What?" Harry said, his victorious grin fading just as quickly as it had formed.

"You heard me." Malfoy's gaze was bright and gleaming like silver. "…I think they're going to break into Gringotts."


	14. The Devil in Silver

"…No."

Harry wasn't sure where the feeling of such intense fear came from at Draco's declaration, but he felt it in the pit of his stomach like a block of solid ice.

"Yes," Malfoy said, noting and relishing the fact that he was garnering such a reaction with this information. "I'm sure I heard them say that. I know it."

"But…" Harry shook his head, recalling a memory from many, many years ago. So far back that it felt like it was someone else's life; some other, much happier person's recollection…

_'Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe - 'cept maybe Horgwarts.'_

Hagrid, and his booming tenor, when he, Harry, had been just eleven years old…

"It's impossible to break into Gringotts," he said. "Whose vault would they need to break into, anyway?"

"Maybe they need access to an ancient, noble blood vault,” Draco said. “Maybe one of these weapons is in the vault of the Flamel family, or—"

"The Dumbledore family—"

"Or the vault of Salazar Slytherin!"

Draco's eyes widened after he said it. "The vault of _Salazar Slytherin_ ," he repeated gleefully, as though he thought this the most delightful possibility.

They continued to speculate on this topic for another ten minutes or so, but no matter what grand names they came up with, neither Harry nor Draco were able to so much as hazard a guess as to just _how_ they were planning on breaking in to the wizarding bank in the first place.

"This is all assuming you actually heard them correctly," Harry finished after a time.

But Draco could not be deterred. "I did. I _know_ I did." He sat at the desk, running a hand over his no-longer slicked back hair, probably more out of habit than intention. "Damn… If they're planning a heist like that…"

His face suddenly turned sour. "They'll probably be holed up in there for hours."

Harry knew he was only sounding so bitter because he was impatient, wanting to pester Ron and Hermione for information now (or, much more likely, be a passive observer while he, Harry, asked), but his words struck Harry with a sudden bolt of inspiration.

"Hey," Harry said, getting to his feet. "If they're going to be distracted for a while, then… We could use this." Draco's annoyed expression became curious. Harry grinned.

"While Snape's preoccupied… I can sneak into his room and get the snitch back."

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. "And what if he catches you?" he asked.

They both became quiet at the unknown but undoubtedly dire consequences of Snape finding Harry digging around in his bedroom—consequences they would both suffer from, surely, considering that Draco was supposed to be 'keeping an eye' on him, which probably also meant 'not letting Harry Potter search through Professor Snape's private things.'

Harry's mind was racing as he tried to think of some clever way to get Malfoy to agree to let him go anyway—but then the Slytherin surprised him. A beat of thoughtful silence later, and Malfoy was smirking as he stood, crossing the room in two long strides and picking up the giant tome on Gellert Grindelwald that Harry had been reading.

"You go in Snape's room, and I'll wait in the hall," he began explaining, holding the heavy book aloft. "If they come out of the drawing room before you're out, I'll drop this. That way you'll hear it and can get out of there before he catches on."

Harry blinked up at him. "I… That's a really good idea," he said blankly.

The sly smile slid from Draco's face. "I've been known to have them," he drawled humorlessly.

Harry laughed. "Excellent. All right, then. Let's go."

Thus, with one thoughtful suggestion of retrieving the snitch, Harry not only managed to get Malfoy to not stop him or follow him into Snape's room, but had even roped him in to assisting. And while he _did_ intend to look for the snitch, his real goal was vastly more important.

The Invisibility Cloak.

They tiptoed past the drawing room door, down the dimly lit hallway where Draco took residence, book in hand. Harry alone ventured further, turning a corner, until—

What if it was locked? Surely Snape would lock it, wouldn't he? But maybe not; he was, after all, in a house with only two other people, neither of which had wands… And he always knew where they were and what they were doing…

He was in luck. Harry turned the handle, and the door swung open.

The master suite was exactly what one would expect the largest bedroom in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black to look like.

It was a massive space. The bed was easily the largest that Harry had ever seen; four people probably could have slept on it quite comfortably. It was covered with thick blankets of ebony black. Harry noticed that Snape, unlike him and Draco, made his bed—in fact, it was so well kempt that it looked like no one had ever actually slept in it before. There was a magnificent rug over the hardwood floors with intricate patterns of black and green, and several ornate mirrors on the walls, which were covered in such decorative wallpaper that it really was rather gaudy. On the far side of the room there was a door which was slightly ajar, leading into what looked like a bathroom.

Harry tried to not be distracted by the overwhelming garishness of his surroundings so that he could focus on the task at hand. _The cloak._ He needed to find the cloak, and Snape had… he had shoved it into the pockets of one of his robes…

Feeling very uncomfortable about it, Harry began digging through the closet, searching the pockets of every single black cloak which was hanging within. The closet alone was nearly the size of the room which he and Draco currently stayed in, though Snape's garments filled only a small section of it. Harry was just beginning to lose hope, was just starting to think that Snape must have moved it and put it somewhere else, when—

 _Yes!_ There it was, in the interior pocket of a particularly thick, heavy robe. Harry extracted the silvery material from within and held it to his chest like a child might hold a beloved stuffed animal. After allowing himself a moment of joyful reunion with his Invisibility Cloak, Harry shoved it into his own pocket—his once more.

 _Right,_ Harry thought as he faced the bedroom again. _Time to find the snitch… If I were Severus Snape, where would I hide a snitch…_

Rummaging through Snape's personal items made Harry feel even more anxious than sneaking into the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts' library, but he was determined to find the snitch too. He opened a large cabinet which was so impressive and grand that it may have actually been a wardrobe—though why someone would possibly need a wardrobe in addition to that massive closet, Harry could only fathom—and was shocked to find several shelves filled with potions of various kinds.

Well, that shouldn't have been too surprising, Harry mused. This was, after all, the Potions Master's room. There were a myriad of glass bottles in numerous shapes and sizes, and while most of them looked completely foreign to him, Harry definitely recognized one.

So Snape _did_ have a small stock of Polyjuice Potion… But nearly half of the contents were gone. _Interesting…_ Harry hummed thoughtfully, wondering what Snape could have done with it, and what was planning on doing with the rest…

And then he snapped out of it, abruptly remembering what it was he was supposed to be doing. _Right. The snitch. Find the snitch._

Harry turned next to the desk. The top drawer held nothing useful; it looked like items that must have belonged to Lady Black in the past (unless Snape had a rather eclectic and impressive collection of silver hair combs…?) and the next drawer as well, nothing useful…

Then Harry hit the jackpot.

The bottom drawer held more than one recognizable item of interest—the first and foremost being his mirror. Harry pulled it out of the drawer in a state of complete disbelief. It was the hand mirror, the one which his Godfather had given him to communicate with… Which his own father had used, long, long ago, when he and Sirius had been in separate detentions…

The mirror which he, Harry, had smashed!

But here it was, perfectly intact and whole. Harry examined his own perplexed and scandalized reflection.

Why did Snape have his two-way mirror? And—more importantly—who had the other one?

He stared into his own, vibrant eyes for a long moment. How badly did he want to call out for someone, to say a name and see if anyone answered on the other end, to see who it was…

Yet he didn't. Couldn't. He, Harry, was supposed to be dead; he couldn't just show up on one end of a two-way mirror without warning. He'd probably give whoever saw his face a heart attack…

But… _Snape_ was supposed to be dead, too!

Harry bit his lip in conflict. He set the mirror aside for the moment, turning his attention back to the contents in the desk.

And there it was. The snitch, poor thing, was shut up tight in a small box in the back of the drawer, wrapped in several very sturdy rubber bands to keep it from fidgeting. _That’s unnecessary,_ Harry thought as he gingerly picked it up and stripped it of its bindings. They stopped struggling after a few moments on their own, once they'd accepted that you'd caught them; there was no need to make them miserable…

The snitch opened its wings slowly and dolefully once they were free, resting quite still on his palm. Harry brought it to his lips so he could see the words again:

'I open at the close.'

He frowned at it. "What is it that Dumbledore hid in you, little guy…?" he muttered quietly. Naturally, the snitch didn't answer. It folded its wings tightly against its body, tranquilly inactive once more—no rubber bands necessary.

Harry put it in his pocket which did not contain the cloak before picking up the mirror again. Well, yes, it _was_ his, but if he took the mirror with him and Snape _had_ been using it to communicate with someone, he would obviously notice it was missing… Ah, and what if he noticed the snitch was missing? He wouldn't, hopefully—Snape had put it in a separate box, after all, with any luck he was not regularly checking up on it to see if it was still there—same with the cloak; Snape had left that in the same robe he'd brought it here in… But the mirror, Harry mused, he would definitely know if that was gone…

Sighing in defeat, Harry slowly lowered it back into the drawer… when something else caught his eye. Something moving. A photograph? A corner of a moving image was peeking out from beneath a piece of parchment with only a few sentences written near the top of it. Harry reached for it, curious—it looked like someone laughing—

But then a loud _thud_ derailed his action completely, a noise which sounded ominously like that of a heavy book being dropped. Panicking, Harry quickly shoved the mirror back in the drawer and dashed out of the room, hoping that he had left everything the same as it had been in when he'd entered.

He met Malfoy in the hall; they could hear the voices of Ron and Hermione from further down, still out of sight. Draco quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly, to which Harry gave a quick and silent thumbs up. They both grinned.

"…continue going over this in an hour's time, once—" Snape turned the corner first, pausing at the sight of Harry and Draco standing motionlessly in the hall… smiling at each other. His dark eyes bored down on them, looking as though he could just smell the mischief in the air.

"What are you two doing out here?" he asked suspiciously, his gaze flickering back and forth between the two.

"Nothing," they said at the same time, now looking in opposite directions. Neither of them was stupid enough to make eye contact with a master Legilimens, especially now.

They were saved future questioning, however, when Hermione and Ron joined them, the former of which reached forward and grabbed Harry by the hand.

"C'mon, let's go to the kitchen," Hermione said, pulling him towards her. "Ron's in a miserable state from not eating, and I promised I'd cook…"

Harry felt a wave of relief as she led him down the hall, away from the menacing glower of Severus Snape… But he felt his accusatory gaze fixated on his back the entire time he walked away, certain that he knew, without a doubt, that Harry had been up to something… something devious. _So very like his father._

* * *

"So, where have you been?"

Hermione, while not nearly as remarkable as Snape was in the kitchen, was an impressive cook nonetheless. She supervised several vegetables being diced while she lit the stovetop with the tip of her wand, preparing to make rice. Malfoy had joined them, too, unable to resist the conversation that was sure to take place. Still, he did look rather uncomfortable to be sitting at a table with Ron and Harry… and was probably even more so at the fact that Hermione Granger was voluntarily making food for all of them. Harry was curious to see if the Slytherin would actually eat it.

Snape remained absent. Hermione had said it was because he needed to prepare something for when they reconvened, but Harry was feeling anxious that he might be checking the status of a certain flying, golden sphere, that Snape somehow knew at once that was what Harry had been up tp…

Well, like all the rest of the uncertain things in his complicated life, only time would tell.

Harry had directed his initial question at Ron, who was sitting across from him. He glanced up warily at Hermione—always seeking permission before saying anything—who gave a sort of halfhearted nod.

Ron took a deep breath, and his next word was spoken with deepest loathing.

_"Albania."_

Harry stared. "A…Albania…?" he asked, astounded. "Where…where you-know-who was hiding out for years…?"

Ron nodded. Harry looked from him, to Hermione, and back again.

"But… why?"

"Beats me!" Ron shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "Fucking Albania. You know what's in Albania?"

Harry did not know what was in Albania. He shook his head.

"A bunch of goddamn mosquitos, that's what!" Ron yelled—and, as though referencing them had caused them to itch, he began scratching at his arm vehemently, where he did, in fact, seem to be covered in tiny, red bumps. "And nothing else! Nothing useful—a huge waste of time—"

"It was not a waste of time," Hermione snapped, and the flame underneath the pot of water flickered dangerously for a moment. "At least we know for certain that nothing is there now. We had to check…"

"Easy for her to say," Ron muttered to Harry and Draco. "Apparently parasitic bugs of all kinds just love me, so she didn't get bit hardly at all. So long as they had the option of sucking my blood instead, they pretty much left her alone—"

"That's utter rubbish," Hermione quipped. "You wouldn't have gotten bitten nearly so much if you would have just worn the stupid, charmed repellant that I made—"

"That stuff smelled like vanilla—and flowers—I wasn't going to wear that."

"Well, it's your own fault, then," she fumed, and while Harry found their bickering oddly comforting for its familiarity, he did wish that Ron would be smart enough not to do it while Hermione was conjuring fire.

Ron scoffed, scratching his shoulder now. "Might've gotten Spattergroit for real…" he muttered tersely.

"Spattergroit?" Harry asked. "What's that?"

"Oh." Ron blinked, his anger fading slightly. "It's a really infectious disease, makes you break out in purple postules… It's the story that my family has been spreading for the reason I'm not at Hogwarts… Attendance was mandatory for all witches and wizards of school age for the first time this year."

"It was?"

Malfoy beat Harry to asking the question, and Ron faltered at answering right away. It was quite an adjustment for all parties involved, to be a part of a civil, group conversation like this.

"Er… yes," he answered, and then his gaze went back to being predominantly focused on Harry. "So my family had to come up with a good excuse as to why I couldn't attend. Fred, George, and my dad helped me transfigure the ghoul in the attic to look like it has Spattergroit. Nasty illness, no one will want to get near enough to him to check if it's really me if anyone actually goes to confirm the story."

Harry felt a rush of guilt. It must have shown on his face, too, because Ron instantly went on. "Ah, it's all right! The only one who refused to accept that I wasn't going to Hogwarts this year was my mum, and she'll get over it. The ghoul was ecstatic, too. He gets to sleep in my bed and everything."

But even though Ron was trying valiantly to look unaffected by this, Harry felt terrible. "So… Hermione has just gone 'missing', you have Spattergroit, and Malfoy and I are dead."

Draco snorted, causing Hermione and Ron to both glare at him. "What?" he drawled, crossing his arms. "Is it a crime to find it amusing just how screwed we all are?"

"No one is screwed," Hermione said curtly as she poured rice into the pot. "We are making progress, and—"

She paused. Harry and Draco exchanged anticipated glances.

"And what?" Harry prompted, for she looked very on the verge about whether or not she should continue talking.

"And… Well, tomorrow… tomorrow we are going to finally do something that we've been planning for a very long time."

"…And?" Harry prodded again. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh… I…" When she turned to face them, she looked extremely anxious. "I… It's…something very big, and it's been very, very complicated to plan. Professor Snape has been working on it for months, and—and he called us back here because he thinks that we need to do it tomorrow, because—"

For the first time ever, it was Hermione looking to Ron pleadingly. Ron swallowed audibly. Harry got the impression that, this time, whatever it was they were unwilling to tell him, it was less because it was 'unsafe', and more because it was simply… bad news.

Ron cleared his throat. His words sounded somewhat rehearsed. "There was an attack, yesterday," he explained. "The Death Eaters, they… destroyed a public building. _Really_ public… It was all over the news, both ours and the muggles. They were making… quite a statement."

"What did they do?" Harry asked warily.

Ron and Hermione glanced nervously at each other again, and it was really starting to piss him off. Why couldn't they just spit it out, already?

"They… they lit a… a well-known establishment on fire," Ron finally said. "It was pretty… big. A lot of people died, and the aurors have been running around like mad, trying to cover it up—make it seem like some kind of natural, freak accident, something explicable by means other than magic—and it's been mayhem, because there were so many witnesses, things caught on tape… and… Well…there were… there were more than a few ambushes, in all the aftermath, and…"

His voice trailed off as he seemingly lost his nerve.

Hermione, who had been biting her nails as Ron spoke, finally broke, the confession rushing out of her in a sudden, emotionally drenched sob.

"Oh, Evans—we l-lost Mad-Eye!"

Harry stared, his jaw falling open in shock. "…What?" he gasped.

She nodded, eyes filling with tears.

…And it was so strange, Harry realized, to feel such a wave of loss and sadness course through him for a man that, technically, he had not known very well at all.

Harry _thought_ he'd known the hardened auror; had even been told by him that he would make an excellent dark wizard hunter himself… But it had been a Death Eater he'd been getting to know all along…

Harry had only had a few conversations with the actual Alastor Moody.

"I-it was dreadful. He… He…"

Ron stood, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulder, who sniffled loudly. "He died saving Tonks, apparently," he finished for her, looking back at Harry again. "He was like a mentor to

her, you know…and—oh, God, we haven't even told you!" He smacked himself on the forehead with his other hand. "Lupin and Tonks got married!"

"What!?"

Another wave of shock, and Harry wasn't sure if he should be grinning or crying at the moment. He got to his feet, too, unable to remain seated with so much conflicted emotion swirling around in his head. "But—I didn't even know they—"

"Yeah, it kind of took us all by surprise," Ron said with a somewhat forced smile. "I guess Tonks had a thing for him for a long time, and Remus was really against it. Said she should be with someone younger—and, you know, not a werewolf—but you know women, when they know what they want…"

Hermione hiccupped, pushing him away from her but grinning slightly despite herself.

She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Yes, yes… They're very happy together… b-but…" Her smile vanished as quickly as it had come.

"They were all in a battle that broke out in some back alley in London, shortly after the attack," Ron continued. "Moody took a hit for Tonks, and so she and Remus managed to escape… We lost several of the aurors from our side, too, but no one else that I think you've met…"

"Who did it?" Harry asked, suddenly needing to know who, exactly, was responsible. "Who killed Mad-Eye?"

Ron's voice lowered significantly.

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

 _Bellatrix Lestrange._ Harry's blood ignited in pure, undiluted fury.

The one person in existence who he hated even more, perhaps, than Peter Pettigrew (barring Tom Marvolo Riddle, obviously… obviously!). That horrid witch, with her high-pitched, condescending baby-voice… Who had mocked him when he'd tried to make her feel a fraction of the pain that he'd felt, when she'd—

Harry clenched his hand into a painfully tight fist. He wondered how he do in performing such a curse now.

"Yeah," Ron said darkly. "She really has it out for Tonks… probably because they're related, and she went and married a half-breed…"

Harry's next comment was derailed as he suddenly realized something mid-sentence. "I'm sure you're—wait. How do you know all this?" he asked. "How do you know what's going on in such detail, were you—were you _there_?"

Hermione looked guilty. "No, no, of course not; we've been in Albania, like we've said… We've been in contact with Remus, over the past week. Ron and I have," she said in a small voice.

"You have!?" Harry shouted, but he was too curious to be angry. "Well, why didn't you say so!? How has he been? What else has been going on, have you been talking to anyone else, is—"

"No," Hermione interrupted, seizing on his last question. "We haven't been talking to anyone else at all, only Remus, and they have been very short, very one-sided conversations," she said quickly. "He agreed to keep Ron and I posted on what's been happening, while we… while we don't tell him anything about what we've been up to. He doesn't know about you. He doesn't know about Snape, or Malfoy. All he knows is that Ron and I are working on Dumbledore's orders, and he hasn't told anyone that he's been in contact with us at all. Not even Tonks."

Harry took a long moment to register all of this.

"Does Snape know you've been talking to him?"

"Yes."

"…But Remus doesn't know that any of us are alive. He… just thinks he's passing along information to you two. But you've been sharing that information with Snape, right?"

"Yes," she repeated.

"…Oh," Harry said, feeling at a loss for anything else at this point.

Then he remembered what it was they had begun talking about in the first place. "So… there was an attack yesterday, and so Snape called you back here, and now you're going to do something… something major tomorrow?"

They both nodded. Hermione paled a bit while Ron turned slightly green.

"Yeah," Ron croaked. "Something absolutely insane. We can't tell you what , but let's just say I don't know anyone ever who has managed anything like it before. but Snape seems to think it has to happen tomorrow, or we may never get a better chance."

"Okay… Why does he think that?"

Hermione intercepted. "Because… l-losing Moody, and so many other aurors… It was a real blow to our side, because we didn't manage to so much as catch a single Death Eater for questioning. And Professor Snape is very insightful; he seems certain that, after such a successful move on their part, they'll celebrate—you-know-who knows the importance of rewarding things like that, he'll want to honor his followers for doing something right, for once—" She nearly spat the last words, and Harry was surprised that she could go from sounding so sad to so bitter in a single breath, "—so they'll be distracted, he thinks, for at least a day or so, definitely not running to the bank first thing in the morning—"

Hermione's eyes went incredibly wide, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Gringotts," Malfoy said pointedly, looking right at Harry when he said it—the unspoken words, 'I told you so' obvious by his stare.

"Hermione!" Ron gasped, but he sounded only very stunned, not angry.

"Is… that true? Are you… Are you really going to break into Gringotts?" Harry spluttered—but the horrified expression on her face answered the questions for him.

"Oh—oh—" She looked from Harry, to Ron, to Draco, and back to Harry—"Oh—damn." she finished in a horrified squeak.

The room was silent for a few seconds, and then—

"Oh God, the rice!"

Hermione twirled on the spot, and the rice she had been preparing was, in fact, burning to the interior of the pot. She frantically brandished her wand over it, putting out the fire on the stove and vanishing the ruined food.

"You shouldn't have heard that," she all but whispered afterwards, her hands down flat on the counter with her back to them. "I shouldn't have… I—"

"We'll play dumb," Harry offered up, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I'm not afraid of Professor Snape being cross with me, if that's what you mean by that," she snapped as she turned to face them, surprising them all with the ire in her voice. "It's… I'm just already so nervous about this, and—and Evans, you really, really need to become efficient at Occlumency as soon as you can—"

And then she was right back on the verge of tears again, reaching for both of his hands and holding them tightly in her own. "Please, please, please, it is the most critical and important thing right now, and once you're there, once this is over tomorrow, we can start to tell you more, and—"

"All right, all right!" Harry said, unable to stand the prospect of Hermione Granger bursting into tears in his arms—a sentiment which he could tell was shared by the room at large, based on the uncomfortable shifting of both Ron and Draco. "I… We'll drop this conversation completely until tomorrow, and I'll keep practicing, and everything is going to be just wonderful."

Hermione blinked up at him, glittering tears clinging to her lashes. "I mean it," he said calmly. "Whatever it is you have to do tomorrow, I'm sure you'll be brilliant. You're Hermione Jean Granger, the brightest witch of our age, and with Ron helping you, I'm sure that there is nothing, nothing that you can't manage to pull off… Besides, you have Snape in your corner. And while I'm sure the company is insufferable, he at least seems adequately invested in making sure none of us get kidnapped by Death Eaters or die horrible, painful deaths. In fact, sometimes…"

Harry paused for a second, lowering his voice slightly as he leaned in a bit closer to her. "…It almost seems like he actually cares about us," he murmured wryly.

"Don't delude yourself."

Hermione’s laughter turned into a high-pitched squeak of surprise. There was Snape, leaning against the doorframe, looking somehow both very cavalier and sour.

How long had he just been standing there? Harry wondered. How had _none_ of them noticed his appearance?

The Potions Master retracted his wand as he stepped into the room, his scornful expression deepening with every word he spoke. "Let me make this clear. There is one thing and one thing only which I care about—winning this war. Which is very closely related to the art of not only survival, but progress. I am keeping your sorry skins alive for the sake of _progress_. Don't let the emotional stresses of war confuse you into thinking that I actually care about any of you as individuals. You—" he pointed at Malfoy, "—have managed to lose what little preference I had for you by keeping important information from me last year, for no other reason than your own selfish pride—you two—" he pointed at Ron and Hermione "—have been some of my least favorite students from the moment you walked into Hogwarts' Great Hall, for both your contrite, stereotypical Gryffindor personality traits as well as the fact that you are so closely associated with—" now Harry was being pointed at, "— _this_ one, who I detest so greatly and for so many varying reasons that we would all die of old age before I could list them all and _why are you smiling like that?_ "

Harry _was_ smiling. His grin had started the moment that Snape had pointed his wand at Malfoy and had only grown broader the more he'd gone on—this monologue of his which bordered on defensive. He looked back to Hermione, who still had tears on her lashes. "…I think he loves us," Harry whispered to her—purposefully loud enough for the entire room to hear it.

She failed to suppress a snort. Snape's eye twitched so violently that Harry though he might be on the verge of a stroke.

"Out!" he bellowed, and his wand, which was still pointed at Harry's chest, shot out sparks of white. "Out—you and Draco—go to your room and _stay_ there!"

He was snarling, but Harry couldn't help but find it very funny. Snape was banishing Draco and him to their room like an angry parent.

Harry’s laughter was cut very short, however, as a powerful stinging hex hit him in the shoulder. "Ha —Ow! Ow—okay! I'm going, I'm—OW!"

Two in a row, and still Harry couldn't stop laughing as he ran to the door—which Draco had bolted for the moment he saw sparks, holding the giant book on Gellert Grindelwald in front of him like a shield as he went. Harry narrowly dodged a third curse as he rounded the corner, sprinting down the hall. He called the words "Love hurts, Professor!" over his shoulder as he went, unable to stop himself.

Fortunately, Snape chose not to chase after him in order to continue his onslaught. Harry shut the door to their room behind them as he entered, where Draco already was, panting from exertion.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then they both started laughing. It went on for a long time—just an uncontainable stream of laughter, and it was quite difficult to stop once they'd gotten going.

It felt so, so good, just to laugh.

"You idiot," Draco finally said between breaths, trying and failing to regain his usual drawl. "Now we're stuck in here until he cools off."

"What can I say, it's in my stereotypical, contrite, Gryffindor nature," Harry muttered.

They both laughed again.

But the humor of the situation eventually wore off. Being stuck in their room was even more boring than being anywhere else in the house. There was no piano playing to be had in here…

"We didn't even get anything to eat," Draco eventually whined. Harry rolled his eyes at him.

"Here," he said as he opened his trunk, digging through the contents (during which time, he sneakily and stealthily slipped his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and stashed it underneath his jeans). Harry grabbed an apple from inside of a paper bag which Hermione had brought them days before. He tossed it in Malfoy's direction.

"Catch."

Draco did—barely. He looked baffled. "You hid food in your trunk?" he asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "Not much. Bit of an old survival habit of mine from childhood… My aunt and uncle weren't exactly above sending me to bed without dinner regularly."

What Harry didn't say was that he'd been consistently dreaming of being trapped in that household, in one specific, dreary cupboard, and that the recurring nightmare had brought about some…old habits of his.

Yet he'd explained enough that Malfoy's head tilted to one side at his response, like he'd never quite seen Harry James Potter before.

"They did?" he asked.

Harry nodded like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah. But I'm not hungry, you have it," he said. He grabbed a giant sweatshirt out from a pile of clothing. "And hey—at least we got the snitch." Harry flashed the golden globe at him, grinning.

But Draco glanced at it only briefly. "Yeah," he said a bit dazedly, before looking back at the apple in his hands. He was staring at it with a strange, blank expression on his face. It looked as though he was questioning his entire existence, and that the explanation for everything might be there, somewhere, on the surface of that particular piece of red fruit.

"…Yeah."

…Harry wondered if he would ever understand a single person who had been sorted into Slytherin.

Shrugging it off, he pulled the hoodie on over his head and closed his trunk. Harry flung himself down on his bed, grabbing his book and picking up where he'd left off—he was now at the beginning of a new section entitled 'Inseparable Relations: Associations and Correlations with the Muggle War.'

Malfoy remained largely silent for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually, he pulled the diary out from under his mattress and began to scribble away in it again, almost feverishly.

Draco wrote, Harry read, and the day passed slowly.

* * *

"We need to leave."

At some point, Harry wasn't sure when, he had unwittingly slipped into unconsciousness. They rest of the afternoon had been uneventful—Malfoy seemed incapable of conversation after Harry had performed the (apparently monumental) good deed of giving him an apple…and only once, in fact, had Harry ventured to leave the bedroom all, simply because he'd needed to use the toilet. Harry could see that Ron, Hermione, and Snape had taken up residence in the drawing room again, as the door was closed. When he tossed a rolled-up sock at it, it soared away inexplicably—a sign that wards were firmly in place. They must have stayed there all day, too, because not once did Ron or Hermione come to talk to him, and he was sure they would have, if they had been able to.

A boring, monotonous day, indeed.

It was nothing at all like his night was soon to be.

"Er… come again?"

The voice in his ear was harsh and demanding.

"We need to leave this house," Riddle reiterated, tightening his grasp on Harry's waist.

Harry sat up, the arms around him loosening most reluctantly. "Are you mad?" he balked. When he turned to face him, he still saw nothing but shadows. The mysterious darkness was really beginning to drive him crazy. "We can't leave, that'd be suicidal—worse than suicidal, actually."

"Staying here is suicidal," the voice snapped.

Harry flinched at the severity of his tone. "What are you talking about?"

"Your friends… Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley… They are not your friends… And Severus Snape… They are doing something dangerous, something terrible, and it will ruin you."

A pause.

"…Ruin us."

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. "No, you've got it all wrong," he said. The silhouette retracted, disappearing completely into the darkness. "They would never do anything to hurt me, they're my best friends. They've saved me loads of times, and Snape… Well, sure, he's Snape, but he's on our side, too."

"None of them are on our side."

The icy words sent a shiver down his spine. They were sharp and cold and made Harry think of shattered glass.

"We need to leave, Harry," he said again, and this time, his voice was coming from a different corner of the cupboard—Harry turned but saw nothing there in the darkness but the faint outline of a silvery spider's web.

And while his heart was already beginning to race, the adrenaline starting to course through his veins in trepidation, it was the next statement, spoken so silkily smooth and low that made Harry’s stomach drop completely.

"I'm going to take over for a while, I think."

Harry turned again, for this time, the sound had come from another corner, near the door—

"What—where are you?" he asked. Laughter was the response—soft, musical-sounding laughter.

"I want to see you," Harry said as firmly as he could. "Let me see your face."

Another bout of laughter. "Are you sure you're ready, Harry?" From below him, this time—under the cot, beneath the floorboards—

"Let me see your face," Harry repeated.

"Careful what you wish for…"

Above him, from the dangling, broken lightbulb. He was laughing again, and it was all around him and yet it was nowhere—

"Let me see you. I want to know, I—" Harry's voice stuck in his throat for a moment— "Who… who are you?"

"…I'll give you a hint." Harry's heart was pounding as he turned, seeing nothing—

"I'm someone you know… How exactly did you put it, again? In the _privacy_ of your own thoughts? Oh, yes, I remember… Someone suave and handsome, deceptive and cunning… Someone with perfect, porcelain skin and aristocratic features, with shining black hair and shining black eyes… A boy with a quick wit and—my favorite bit—"

The next words were spoken right in his ear. Harry could feel the warm breath against his skin.

"…A silver tongue."

But when he whipped around there was no one there, nothing but shadows, and his laughter was ringing in the empty air—and it couldn't be, couldn't possibly be, because—

"Couldn't it?"

Harry's breath was hitching in his throat as he backed away towards the door, reaching for the knob, but it was locked—how was the door locked in his own dream? Harry willed it to open, but it wouldn't budge—

"So what's it going to be, Harry?" There was no mistaking it now, that voice, and how could he not have pinpointed it sooner? How—

"Fight…"

Harry felt a single finger being dragged up his spine, barely making physical contact at all, but it brought with it a terrible, earth-shattering shiver—Harry turned—

_"…Or fuck?"_

Parseltongue. Right in his ear, and—

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Similar to the memories he'd seen in the diary—young and handsome and _Harry had killed him_ —

Harry was hit with too many emotions at once to process them as his back collided with the closed door behind him—terror, rage, confusion, and—

And something entirely unwanted that the parseltongue seemed to rip right out of the pit of his stomach.

"You—you can't—impossible—" Harry spluttered as he stared at what was undeniably the terrifying yet beautiful face of the Heir of Slytherin. "The diary—it—"

"The diary…" Riddle drawled. He smiled thinly, like Harry had just made a poor, ill-timed joke. "No… Close, close…but—"

He leaned closer, and Harry was momentarily paralyzed by his stare. "I'm something better… I'm an _angel_ , remember, Harry?"

Riddle’s saccharine voice was saturated in so much sarcasm that Harry nearly blanched. "You're no angel," he said, trying valiantly to sound brave. "You tried to kill me—you're the _devil_ —"

"Satan was an angel, Harry," Riddle stated matter-of-factly—before his lips curved into what was a rather demonic smile. "An angel of light, God's favored… Then fallen… So tragic, really, so misunderstood… It's quite fitting, don't you think?"

He laughed. Harry's stomach was coiling like a serpent in his chest.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Riddle's grin vanished, and his voice was suddenly so gentle that Harry could have sworn he'd just become a different person entirely. "You know I won't. I saved you, remember? I'm saving you now, in fact… Can you see them?"

Before Harry could react, Riddle reached forward and grabbed his shoulders, twirling him around so that he was facing the door again.

"Do you even feel them?"

Harry was too shocked to think to struggle. He stared at the wooden door, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking at, when—

"Wards," he breathed in disbelief. He reached a hand out, running it softly along the surface of the door…and they were there, shimmering just barely as he touched them, but they felt like almost nothing, nothing at all. They felt…

"Natural." Riddle finished his thought for him. "Because they're yours… Well, mostly." Harry turned to face him again. Riddle was smiling serenely.

"I did that for you, Harry. I simply connected the intrinsic pathways in your mind in order to construct Occlumency barriers that are you own. Just like I brought music to your fingertips." He leaned in a bit closer, and Harry retracted instinctually, his back against the door again. "Just as I saved you from him before… I am your savior, Harry."

"But—but why?" Harry shot out, more baffled than he was scared in that moment. "Why would you want to save me from him? From yourself?"

The smile vanished from Riddle’s face in a flash, replaced by a mask so bloodless and cold it could have been made of stone. "I am nothing like him," he seethed. "I would never do to you what he did. I would never be so monstrous, so—"

He reached forward, moving to place his hand around the crook of Harry's neck. Harry jerked away, confused and enraged. "You _are_ him!" he snarled, his heartbeat thundering like a drum in his ears. "You are him! You tried to kill me, you—"

_"I am not him!"_

Riddle was so fast that Harry barely saw him move. He snatched the silver chain around Harry's neck, grasping the locket and yanking him forward so that Harry practically fell into his arms.

"I saved you from him!" Riddle seethed, his forehead flush against Harry's, his lips dangerously close to his own. "I am on your side and you know it, you know it, I've seen it in your heart… You trust me."

He loosened his grip so that the metal was no longer biting into Harry’s his skin. His voice softened. "You do. You trust me completely, because I have kept you safe. I would never hurt you Harry…"

His words were soft and sweet. His lips grazed Harry’s cheek.

"…But I could."

Then he shoved him, hard—the back of Harry's skull hit the door with a sharp thud, and he was too stunned, too petrified to react—

"I could hurt you. I could take your body by force, possess you, control you without your consent."

Pure, devastating horror swept up Harry’s spine. _Wake up_ , he thought torridly, _wake up—_

Riddle laughed, low and breathy, as though he had heard Harry's desperate thoughts and found them amusing. The next words out of his mouth filled Harry with something even more debilitating than fear.

_"…I could eat you alive, Harry Potter…"_

Parseltongue again—and it was soul-crushing.

The blood coursing through Harry's veins seemed to freeze for a moment before racing chaotically, unsure of which direction it should be rushing. Riddle smirked, and the hand which had been holding the locket slackened completely, letting go of the necklace and moving down his chest.

_"…I could sssskin you with my tongue…"_

He leaned into the crook of Harry's shoulder, running his tongue along his collar bone, up his neck—and the blood in Harry's veins made up its mind completely, seemingly leaving his brain and therefore all rational thought behind and heading lower.

Riddle was tearing at his shirt, ripping it apart as if it were made of thin plastic rather than fabric. He bit at Harry's neck and there was the sound of a throaty, deep moan filling the room that couldn't have possibly been Harry’s.

 _"Yesss…"_ Riddle hissed, his hands moving to Harry's shoulders and guiding him across the cupboard effortlessly.

_"…I could ssssteal your thoughts… I could conssssume your ssssoul…"_

Harry's head was swimming as he was being forced down on his back on the cot—though 'forced' was a strong word, really, as he was putting up exactly no physical resistance at all. Riddle was crawling on top of him, straddling him—he leaned over him and his lips were in Harry’s ear again.

"…But I won't."

He ran his hands down Harry's sides, just like he'd always done before, so soothingly—though now they had an entirely different effect on his body.

Then he paused.

"I won't do anything without your consent." Riddle looked into Harry's eyes when he said it, in plain, comprehensible English. The familiar sensation of hundreds of butterflies trying desperately to escape the confines of his ribcage, wild and unbidden, fluttered in Harry’s chest.

Riddle's lips were less than an inch away, but he did not move. He stayed completely still, simply hovering there, not acting. The world was silent.

And then Harry was the one reaching hungrily, craning his neck towards him, kissing him, and it was divine. Their lips crashed together with an almost manic intensity, and Harry stopped caring altogether about how insanely and reckless this all was.

Or… was it? Was this _really_ another version of the memories of Tom Marvolo Riddle, or was it all just his fucked-up, imaginary subconscious? What if this was just a dream, after all? …Was one possibility any better or worse than the other, really?

All Harry knew for certain was that he didn't care. He didn’t care at all.

Kissing Tom Riddle was exhilarating. It was fire and flame; it was thunder and lightning. It was pure passion, powerful and all consuming, and Harry was on fire with it. Riddle was ravishing his neck and he was putty in his hands.

 _"…I'm going to take over for a while, Harry…"_ Riddle said for the second time, hissing the words. His lips were against Harry’s chest as he spoke, covering him with semi-painful, heavenly bites along his sternum. And Harry was listening, he _was_ , but it was so difficult to care about what he was saying when it was being spoken in such velvety, seductive parseltongue.

_"I'm going to ssssave us…"_

Riddle was running his tongue along his abdomen now, and Harry felt an indescribable thrill of anticipation as he worked his lips lower, and lower still—

_"…I just need you to say yes…"_

His hands were on the hem of Harry’s pants now, pulling them down with agile fingers…

Harry's back arched when he unexpectedly sucked on the skin over his hip bone; the wavy, dark hair on Riddle’s head brushing against Harry’s throbbing erecrion.

 _"Fuck—"_ The swear leapt out of Harry’s throat, and he was more jumbled and nervous and absolutely enthralled than he'd ever been before in his entire life, and all he knew as that now, right now, the only thing in the world that mattered was that Tom Marvolo Riddle not stop what he was doing.

_"Say yes for me, Harry…"_

His lips were hovering directly above the tip of his cock, which was so hard it was painful. Harry felt his breath against the sensitive skin there and it took every ounce of willpower to not simply beg and whimper.

_"…Say yes…"_

On some strange, deeply buried level of his mind, Harry knew what he was saying, knew what he was asking, but there was nothing that could make him give a damn right then. Albus Dumbledore himself could have appeared right then and there in the closet with them, dressed in robes of brilliant white to play the metaphorical role of God. He could have looked at Harry with those twinkling blue eyes and said, _'My dear boy, if you actually let this happen all will be lost, and the entire world will be consumed in a lake of fire,_ ' and Harry’s response would have been:

_'Fuck it, let it burn.'_

…And maybe Tom had somehow followed that twisted train of his Harry’s thoughts, because he let out a short, throaty laugh. He then ran his tongue along the side of Harry’s cock, slow and languid, like some demented reward system.

"Oh, fuck," Harry swore again, unable to stop himself from bucking forward longingly. Tom put his hands firmly on Harry's hips, pinning them down.

 _"…Say yes…"_ he said before sucking at the skin on Harry's lower stomach. So close, yet so far—

"Fuck—yes, y—"

 _"No."_ The smooth parseltongue was suddenly a spitting, lethal snarl. Tom looked up at him and Harry swore to high heaven that his eyes flashed _red_.

 _"I said_ say _it."_

His nails were digging into Harry’s hips like talons, and that crimson glare made his heart skip several beats. Such menacing eyes probably that should have scared Harry to hell and back, but Riddle had moved his lips so that his mouth was right at the tip of his length again—

_"…Ssssay it…"_

And Harry knew what he meant, somehow, but… He'd never done it, not with another person, wasn't even sure he could… He felt a rush of nervousness amongst all the lust and yearning; he took a deep, steadying breath…

_"…Yessss…"_

Success. The parseltongue slipped effortlessly from his lips—Harry had felt it, he could tell…

Riddle smiled sardonically up at him. _"Good boy,"_ he praised, running his tongue down Harry’s cock again. Harry trembled, completely helpless.

_"Ssssay it again. Ssssay you're my sssslave…"_

_"Yesss…"_

Riddle’s mouth finally closed around him entirely, and it was warm and wet and utter bliss. Harry nearly lost it in that instant, it was so overwhelmingly _good_. Riddle moved his mouth up and down, torturously slow, his tongue wrapping around his length in a way that Harry would have never thought possible.

Harry lost all ability to form words at that point, parseltongue or otherwise. It was just a continuous, snakelike hiss that escaped his lips. This, he thought madly, this is so wrong, so completely wrong, but he wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life—nothing mattered so long as Tom Marvolo Riddle not stop what he was doing, however he was doing it, because this was heaven. Nothing else held any importance anymore—not the war, not the Order, nothing—

_'Yesss, Harry… Go on…'_

His voice reverberated now in his head, for Riddle’s mouth was currently preoccupied. It was seductively smooth in his thoughts, and God, the sound of that voice in his mind and the sensation of his tongue wrapped around him was too much, far too much. Harry’s fingers tangled in Tom's hair, holding him tightly—anything, anything to keep him there, for this to continue—

_'Spill out all of you sssssinful sssssecretsssss…'_

Harry was feeling lightheaded, dizzy—weak. Somehow, somewhere in the back of his feverish mind, Harry knew what was happening. That this situation—him climaxing under the ministrations of Tom Marvolo Riddle—was synonymous with just signing his body away.

He knew it, but…

_'I want to tassssste them on my tongue…'_

But…

_'I want to sssswallow them whole…'_

_Oh, fuck—_ Harry was on the precipice, dizzy and light-headed and his body felt faint but he could not stop it; he was going to erupt, to spill himself, body and soul, onto Riddle’s silver tongue—  

_'Yesss… Come for me, Harry…'_

"Wake up!"

_“Come…”_

"Wake up, wake UP!"

A vicious, deadly snarl— _furious_ —

"AH—What! I—"

Harry sat up so quickly that his vision blurred. The top of his skull collided painfully with what could have only been Draco's chin.

"OW—what the hell!?" Malfoy spat, cupping the lower half of his face while Harry did the same thing to the top of his head.

Then Harry froze, because he realized that he had the biggest erection he'd ever had in his entire life, pressing painfully down into the mattress underneath him, and if he moved—if Draco Malfoy saw, he would—Harry would—he'd be damned before—

"What in Merlin's name were you dreaming about!?" Malfoy snapped, still rubbing his chin. But, Harry noted, he looked more afraid than smug or embarrassed. "You were…you were hissing, and it looked like you were trying to claw your way through the mattress…"

Then Harry understood where his fear had come from. Only one other person hissed as a form of communication, and that person happened to terrify everyone, especially his young, fearful, unwilling followers…

Well, whatever Malfoy was coming up with in his mind, it was far better than the truth. Harry decided to go with it.

"I…I need a minute," he muttered in the darkest, most mysterious tone he could muster. "Just… leave me alone."

Malfoy nodded almost imperceptibly, pale and confused—and the moment he looked away, Harry bolted for the door, hoping against all hope that he had been quick enough for Draco not to notice his shame. _At least I’m was wearing baggy sweatpants to help camouflage things,_ he thought morbidly.

Harry dashed to the bathroom down the hall and closed the door. The shining stars on the face of his watch glittered up at him, indicating that it was nearly seven in the morning.

 _Holy shit_ , he thought as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart now that he was alone. _Holy shit.. That dream…_

But then—and it was so strange, so bizarre, because he had _just_ had it, had just envisioned everything so clearly—was even still feeling the repercussions of horrified yet mesmerized shock—and yet—but now…

…He couldn't remember.

 _What the hell!_ It was the most frustrating thing, because Harry could have sworn that he'd known it a just moment it ago… And as he screwed his face up, trying to remember it… Why, it felt just like when he'd been in grade school, sitting in the furthest corner away from the teacher and from Dudley's horrible gang of bullies, before he'd known he'd needed glasses, and he was trying so desperately hard to make out what it was that was written on board, but no matter how hard he strained, it was so difficult to make out… and then, just as he was beginning to read the words, just as he was beginning to put together the beginnings of a sentence, the message was being scrubbed away, disappearing behind a cloud of chalky, white smoke…

The more Harry tried to recall the specifics of the dream, the more blurred and distorted they became. He only knew two things for certain.

The first was that parseltongue was involved—quite liberally.

The second was that it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced in his life. He knew that even without remembering what happened in it exactly, because he was hornier than he'd ever been in his entire existence.

 _Shit,_ he thought as he tried to focus on lowering his heart rate. He desperately did not want to make the conclusion that he knew he would eventually come to, for there was only one person who he could have been dreaming about if parseltongue was involved. Harry groaned as his dick throbbed as though in humiliating confirmation.

 _No,_ he thought viciously. _No, I will not accept that. I am not going to…to masturbate to thoughts of…to…to…never. I won't lower myself to that._

…His head was saying one thing, while his body argued quite vehemently for another.

Harry took a deep breath. "I need a very, very cold shower," he lamented quietly to himself.

And he was just about to follow through with that, when he thought he heard voices from down the hall… A woman's voice… A familiar, jeering voice…

But no…

Harry's blood ran cold, and if there was anything in the world that could crush his libido so suddenly and so successfully, it was the sound of that voice.

He sprinted down the hall, all thoughts of sex and shame miraculously forgotten in an instant. The acidic taste of bile was clawing at the back of his throat at the mere thought of her. But it couldn't be, not here. Harry burst into the front room, and—

"You!"

The dark gaze of Bellatrix Lestrange stared back at him.


	15. Progress

Bellatrix Lestrange was standing in the front room, her wand in her hand with that haughty, poised demeanor. Her hooded eyes flickered to Harry, and he tasted acid on his tongue and static in the air and—

Her dark eyes widened in shock.

"No! No, it's me, it's Hermione!"

" _You_ —what?"

The electric tension vanished as Bellatrix Lestrange stumbled in her haste to raise her hands up defensively, her face stunned and fearful—an expression that Harry would not imagine ever being on the face of the _real_ Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry stared at her, baffled.

"Why…?"

"No!"

It was Snape who snarled, and Harry turned to see both he and a rather large, brutish-looking man who Harry recognized only vaguely.

"R… Ron?"

The giant man nodded weakly.

"No, no, no!" Snape roared in Harry's direction. "You were not granted permission to leave your room. What are you doing up at this hour?"

He pointed his wand threateningly at his chest. Harry recoiled—so very, very glad that his painful erection had died a sudden and rapid death the moment he thought he'd heard the voice of _Bellatrix Lestrange_. As his eyes darted around the three of them, and he began to piece it all together.

"You—you’re going to break in to the Lestrange vault?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Snape's eyes widened as he rounded on Hermione and Ron, both of whom looked guilty and, admittedly, a bit terrified.

"Oh, it's my fault, professor," Hermione confessed in a high-pitched voice that sounded very wrong coming from Bellatrix's mouth. "I accidentally mentioned it, I—"

"Silence!" Snape seethed. She stopped speaking at once.

Snape took a long, deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He stayed still for a long time, looking both deeply contemplative yet murderous. Ron, Hermione and Harry did not dare to say a word.

When he spoke next, it was with a forcibly controlled voice.

"It does not matter how he found out at this point. In a few hours' time, this will all be over and done with regardless. But I will not have you ruining this." He glared at Harry, his teeth barred. "Every single part of this operation was incredibly precarious to prepare, you cannot even fathom—everything from producing the Polyjuice Potion to acquiring hairs to gaining access to Bellatrix's wardrobe before I rescued you so that I could duplicate her _exact_ clothing—" He motioned snappishly at Hermione, who was, in fact, wearing a tightly bound, black, leather corset, a thick, velvety cloak (also black), and—he wondered how she was able to even walk in them— tall, laced up boots (black as well) that went over her knees with towering, pencil-thin heels. The look on Snape's face indicated that, had he been caught red-handed snooping around in Bellatrix's closet examining and replicating her shoes, the ridicule would have easily been a fate worse than death.

"And I will not have it go awry because of your interruption. So not another word from you." He flicked his wrist in Harry's direction, and he went stumbling backwards against the wall due to a wordless spell. Snape then returned his attention to Hermione.

"You have fallen out of character," he stated flatly, granting Harry another quick scowl as though he had just undone a substantial amount of his hard work. "Seeing as there is no longer a need to keep quiet this morning… We shall go through this again."

Ron and Hermione both bobbed their heads in unison. Snape crossed the room, his robes billowing behind him.

"This," he said grandly, as he set an antique globe on top of a tall shelf, "is the goblin Gurgrig— not that you would ever refer to him by his name—and he is seated at the desk furthest to the left at the end of the main hall—the desk which Bellatrix Lestrange always goes to. Your wand may have a glamour cast over it, but it will fail a routine inspection. However, Bellatrix Lestrange would never allow such a mundane, somewhat lengthy procedure to be taken on her. You are in a rush, you are above such things, but you are not above raising your voice and throwing a temper tantrum in public places. It is how you get what you want." He stood directly in front of Hermione, his intense gaze lit up with something that Harry thought he might actually refer to as excitement.

"You _are_ Bellatrix Lestrange," he said firmly.

"I-I am Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione repeated meekly. Harry got the impression that she was still a bit shaken at the prospect of Harry having nearly electrocuted her again.

"No!" Snape fumed, grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her, fire in his eyes. "You _are_ Bellatrix Lestrange!"

She swallowed, staring back at him unflinchingly when she said, in a much more sinister, convincing tone, "I _am_ Bellatrix Lestrange."

Looking appeased, the older wizard stepped away, his robes swirling about him. Harry couldn't help but think that, in another life, Severus Snape would have made a fabulous acting coach… Which shouldn't have been too surprising, really, seeing as he spent literally half of his life acting. Harry watched the way the Potions Master stared at his ex-student, his face filled with hopeful anticipation.

"Begin."

Hermione Granger left the room.

Bellatrix Lestrange strode with a sophisticated, elegant poise as she approached the 'goblin', and she walked so well in those heels that Harry came to the immediate conclusion that they must have been practicing this all day yesterday.

She jutted her chin out as she glowered up at the globe with those heavily hooded eyes. "I require access to my vault, goblin," she said in a voice dripping with disdain, twirling her transfigured wand idly in her hands as a silent, yet very clear, threat. "And I'm in a rush, so make it snappy. You—"

She turned to Ron, who was just standing there, looking a bit disgruntled and awkward, "Wait for me until I return… well?" She turned back to the globe as if it had just said something, and suddenly her voice was shrill and loud and ever so outraged.

"A routine inspection on my wand!?" Bellatrix screeched, a vein protruding out of her neck. "On _my_ wand? You do know who I am, don't you? Or are you that daft, you filthy creature, that you are unaware that you are speaking to Bellatrix Lestrange? I need access to my vault, and I will not waste a moment of my precious time on a useless procedure, nor will I hand my wand over for even a fraction of a second to one of you! Take me to my vault, now, unless you want to experience firsthand why it is that I am the Dark Lord's most favored, his most beloved, his most —"

Her voice was escalating as she built up steam, her pale face flushing slightly as the color rose to her cheeks. Her ebony locks even seemed to become more twisted, to coil and curl with her heated, manic energy.

_"What…?"_

Draco gasped, causing them all to turn. He'd entered the room silently, still in his pajamas, surely drawn in by the sound of the commotion… and he looked absolutely thunderstruck at the presence of his aunt in the front room, shouting incredulously at a golden globe.

She paused when she saw him. "Draco…" Bellatrix purred vindictively. She advanced on the startled blonde like a prowling cat, leering as she advanced. Malfoy took a step back, looking panicked.

"So you _are_ alive… We've missed you so much at the meetings, nephi-kins," she mocked condescendingly in that high-pitched, baby voice that grated on Harry's ears like nails digging straight into his mind. "Cissy misses you…as does your useless, sorry excuse for a father…" Her voice darkened, her black eyes flashing dangerously as they trailed down his thigh, " _Nagini_ misses you, too…"

Draco went so pale that Harry thought he might pass out. In fact, his knees buckled, and if Harry hadn't been so quick on his feet to steady him Malfoy surely would have fallen to the floor.

But Bellatrix threw her head back at his reaction, cackling madly—insane, she was absolutely insane, and the tip of her wand shot out sparks of vibrant green—

And then a single clap broke the spell, and the laughter came to sudden halt. They all turned to look at Snape, whose lips had curved into a devilish grin as he stared at Hermione, clapping two more times in slow succession, and—Harry couldn't believe it—he looked…

He looked so pleased.

"Excellent.," he said, ignoring Draco's ashen and shaken form completely. "You are ready."

Hermione glanced at the terrified face of Malfoy, shocked by her own behavior. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, I lost myself completely—"

"Leave him." Snape intercepted at once. "Take one more drink of this and be gone. It is time." He handed Hermione a glass, which Harry knew at once must be Polyjuice Potion. It was a deep, nearly black, purple color. He then handed another one to Ron, which was thick and moss green.

Harry glanced to the man Ron was impersonating questionably. "What…what do you have to do?" he asked, still supporting the stricken Malfoy from falling over.

Snape answered for him. "Hardly anything. I chose Crabbe for a reason. He is to wait in the lobby while Miss Granger goes to the Lestrange vault and completes the task. Bellatrix would never allow someone else to escort her to her own vault…with the exception of the Dark Lord himself, of course." He stared at Ron accusingly. "So long as you fall short of screaming 'This is a heist, my name is Ronald Weasley, and the Boy-who-lived still lives' whilst you wait in the lobby, then we should be fine. Crabbe is exceptionally unintelligent. He generally grunts more than he speaks."

Snape smirked sardonically. "You are perfect for the role," he finished, forcing the goblet into Ron’s hands. Ron glared at him but said nothing. He took a sip of the potion and made a sour, disgusted face.

"Urgh," he spat, shaking his head before he looked at Harry. "Crabbe senior tastes even worse than his son," he muttered knowingly.

Draco blinked, regaining some of his composure at these words. "What is that supposed to mean?" he spat, pushing Harry's supporting arms away.

Harry and Ron both grinned sheepishly.

"I'll tell you the whole story when I get back, if we make it out of this alive,” Ronurmured.

"Enough," Snape interrupted, taking the goblet from Ron's hands and seeming wholly uninterested in whatever it was they were talking about. "You will be fine. Now go. They've just opened. The sooner you leave, the quicker and more easily this shall go."

He ushered Ron and Hermione towards the door. Hermione glanced briefly back towards Harry before they stepped out.

"Wish us luck!" she called breathlessly over her shoulder—only to be met with an icy glower from Snape.

"I mean—I mean—" She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin in Harry's direction, drawing herself up to her full height…which, in those heels, was rather impressive.

"I hardly require the luck of a filthy, disgusting, half-blood abomination such as you," she seethed, brandishing her wand fluidly—and Harry felt genuine, palpable hatred towards her at her words. She snapped at Ron. "Let's go, Crabbe. Do try and keep up. I know it will be difficult for you, bumbling oaf that you are, but I am in a hurry."

Hermione turned, stepping out on the doorstep and holding out an arm impatiently without a backwards glance.

Ron followed after her, shooting Harry an abysmal look before joining her outside and grasping her arm. And really, Harry thought, he couldn't have looked more distraught than if he'd left with the real Bellatrix Lestrange.

The door closed, and then, with a loud _crack_ , they were gone.

* * *

Snape's version of anxious anticipation turned out to be essentially transforming into a human statue. He sat on one of the armchairs in the front room with his hands folded in front of him, his wand interwoven between his fingers and his eyes closed, and he was so still that Harry thought he may have actually stopped breathing.

Which was exactly the opposite of how _he_ reacted to this dire situation. Harry was feeling increasingly restless. He fidgeted in his seat before getting up and pacing the room for a bit, then turned to head for the study. Maybe playing the piano would help calm his nerves…

"Sit."

Snape's voice cracked like a whip from across the room before Harry had even touched the doorknob. He turned around, but Snape hadn't so much as opened his eyes. How the blazes had he—?

"Neither of you are leaving this room until they return." Snape opened his eyes a mere fraction of an inch, his narrowed gaze focused in Harry's direction.

"Sit."

Then he closed them again, resuming his practice of impersonating a marble sculpture.

Honestly, Harry thought irritably, what did he think he was going to do? Run off to the drawing room and take the portkey out of here? Dash into his bedroom and grab his Firebolt, perhaps, and jump out of window so he could chase after them?

…The moment these thoughts crossed his mind, there was a strange part of him that seemed to say yes, yes, let's do that… And well, Harry thought shrewdly, maybe Snape knew him better than he knew himself. Harry sat, somehow feeling the accusatory glare from his ex-professor fixated on him even with his eyes closed.

Th anxiety continued to build in his chest the longer they were gone. Harry's breathing was becoming increasingly strenuous—short, tight breaths that were less and less efficient at getting air into his lungs, and he needed to do something, he needed to move, he needed to get out of here—

"Hey."

He blinked up at Malfoy, who was peering at him from over the top of a book. He set it aside.

"…Chess?" he offered. Harry swallowed, looking towards Ron's set on the table in the corner of the room. Desperate for anything to distract him from the nauseating sensation of dread in the pit of his stomach, he nodded gratefully.

Harry was white. Draco was black.

The pieces were as animated as ever, but neither of them found their antics very amusing at the moment. Snape seemed completely unaffected by all of it—apparently his superhuman powers of observation were limited to mischievous behavior or other acts which did not meet his approval. That or he simply didn't care, and he was equally as skilled at ignoring things when he wanted to, too.

It was the worst game of chess Harry had ever played.

He tried very hard to concentrate on the pieces on the board, attempted to force himself into making smart, cunning moves, but his focus was split, completely deterred by this ominous feeling… which, of course, he _should_ be feeling. Draco surely was too, but Harry was teetering on the verge of another panic attack. His fingers trembled as he ushered his pawns into unwitting, stupid places on the board where they were sure to meet their untimely demise…

How long had they been gone? How long could it possibly take to retrieve an item from one's vault—especially considering that they had apparated there? And that Hermione, in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange, was demanding speed and efficiency? How long? How long, how long—

A little over an hour, and another sharp _crack_ made them all jump in their seats. Snape was on his feet in an instant, as were Harry and Draco.

Hermione and Ron stepped into the room, and Harry could never envision the real Bellatrix beaming like that.

"We've done it," she said, closing the door behind them. She was breathless and joyous, her pale cheeks flushed with exhilaration. "We've done it, everything went precisely as you said. It was flawless, it was perfect, they shouldn't suspect a thing, we've put the decoy in place, and—"

She was talking very quickly, he words directed towards Snape,"—and I don't know how we would have managed it without you, Professor, it would have been impossible, surely, chaotic, but we did it, and it went so seamlessly, thanks to you—"

"She was brilliant," Ron chimed in, also grinning. "Absolutely brilliant, the goblin immediately cow-toed to her when she started to raise a fuss about her wand, didn't even try to fight her on it—she was in an out in half an hour—"

"It's destroyed?" Snape cut in, looking at Hermione. She nodded.

"Yes, we destroyed it exactly how you said, just like we'd planned, I have it here." She retracted her beaded bag from a hidden pocket underneath the fabric of her skirt, and she held it in her hands meaningfully in front of her.

Snape's face quivered oddly when he looked down at it, like he was trying very hard not to grin as broadly as Hermione and Ron currently were. He jerked his head to the side. "The Pensieve," he said. He then turned and left the room, not so much as waiting for an answer.

Hermione looked around at Harry. "He always wants to know everything precisely, needs to see everything firsthand. He can never just take our word for it," she explained quickly, and though she rolled her eyes at this, Harry thought her tone almost bordered on fond. Like she could never truly be annoyed at someone for wanting to gather all the solid facts on anything.

"I'll be right back," she finished before she went after their ex-professor. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she walked, the hips of Bellatrix Lestrange swaying with a kind of swagger that

Harry could not possibly imagine Hermione carrying off.

Which left Harry and Draco in the company of Ron, currently in the body of Crabbe senior. He was watching Hermione's retreating form suspiciously, like he was just realizing something that bothered him immensely. "Snape never asks for my memories…" he said slowly.

Harry frowned. "Well yeah, why would he? Didn't you just wait in the lobby?"

But Ron continued to look at the closed door which Hermione had just left through with narrowed eyes. "Yeah… Well, while we were at Gringotts…"

"So what happened?" Malfoy asked, unable to remain silent a moment longer. "She said you destroyed something. You're destroying things?"

And Harry, who had been nearly dizzy with relief at the safe return of his friends, felt a sudden wave of fear. It came inexplicably, from a place deep in his chest. It felt foreign. It felt cold.

What was this feeling?

Ron blinked, rapidly coming back to himself. "Uh… yes," he said to Malfoy, and he looked highly uncomfortable without Hermione in the room to grant him permission for his every word.

An opportunity which Draco seemed inclined to capitalize on. "So you're not collecting weapons then. You're hunting down things that need to be taken out. Are they powerful, dark artifacts? Something cursed? And my aunt had one stashed away in her vault? Did the Dark Lord put it there himself?" His voice became much quieter at the last question, unable even still to not sound reverent when speaking about the wizard who'd placed a permanent brand on his arm.

"Uh," Ron started, and Harry thought that this was probably how the real Crabbe senior spoke on a regular basis. "Uh, er, yes," he finally settled for.

Draco scowled. "Yes to which one?" he snapped. Ron shrugged.

"Take your pick. All of them."

"What did it look like?" Harry asked this time. Ron's expression became even more wary.

"I… I dunno if I should say…" He glanced back towards the door as though willing Hermione to walk back through it.

"Oh, come on," Malfoy prodded. "You've just said you destroyed it already, right? So what's the harm in telling us?"

"Um… I…" He took a deep breath. "…It… it was a cup."

Draco and Harry both stared, perplexed. "A cup?" they asked at the same time, to which Ron nodded.

"What kind of cup?" Malfoy continued at once, committed to getting as much information out of Ron as he could while they had him alone. "Was it some kind of priceless artifact? Was it charmed or something? Did it have unique magical properties? Did the Dark Lord do something to it to make it even more invaluable? Powerful?"

Ron said nothing, but the way he hunched his shoulders defensively made it clear that Malfoy had, once again, asked a string of pertinent questions, the answer to all of which was probably, 'yes'.

Harry's stomach twisted into knots. His mouth felt terribly dry.

What was wrong with him?

"I'm not saying anything else till they get in here," Ron muttered, taking a seat on the couch. He let out a long, low breath. "Thank God that's over," he sighed, and then he smiled again as all the tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders seemingly dissipated. He sunk lower into the sofa.

"I need a drink." He gave Harry a discreetly meaningful look, but didn't dare to say anything in the presence of Malfoy.

"Oh, I know," Draco spat, suddenly very cross. "You snuck in booze for dear _Evans_ but wouldn't bring me any even when I offered to pay you."

Ron snickered. "Well, yeah," he said. "D'you still have it, Evans?"

"Course. I've had to hide it, though…" Harry smirked as he shot a sideways glance at Malfoy.

"I hate you both," Draco seethed, crossing his arms. Harry laughed.

"Well, I suppose that maybe, just this once—"

But as it turned out, Harry did not need to offer up his own alcohol to share. For at that moment, Hermione and Snape returned, and floating before them were six glass goblets filled with what must have been wine. Baffled, Harry caught the one that soared into his hands, as did Ron, who hastily stood, and Draco, who was suddenly grinning so broadly it may as well have been a holiday.

Snape held a glass too.

"While none of you are anything near my first choice of drinking partners," he began in his characteristic drawl, "desperate times are desperate times… and some occasions simply must be met with a toast." He raised his glass, and the rest of them, completely shocked but smiling nonetheless, followed suit.

"To progress," he said. His gaze flickered around to each of them in turn, settling lastly on Hermione. And—Harry almost dropped his wine glass—he was smiling, actually _smiling_ , and Hermione was smiling back… but she looked away from Snape to Ron and then to him, and never, ever, did Harry think such a warm expression could exist on the face of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Yes," she said, those dark, hooded eyes blazing. They all repeated her next words with her.

"To—"

* * *

 

_"—Progress!"_

_Glasses were clinking together loudly as the circle of Death Eaters cheered and howled in delight, draining their glasses yet another time that evening. Or, as was now the case, early morning._

_His followers did everything in extremes. When they fought, they killed. And when they_

_celebrated…_

_Bellatrix slammed her empty glass down on the table so hard that it nearly shattered before laughing, reaching for her husband and corralling him into dancing with her once more. Always so full of untamable, unquenchable energy, his dear Bella…a fire that not even those long years in Azkaban could dampen…_

_She danced with Rodolphus, but her passionate, wild gaze was fixated on him._

_Always on him._

_…But the Dark Lord did not dance._

_He observed from his chair, his throne, his place above them… reclined languidly in his seat with his beloved Nagini draped around his shoulders… his precious soul… How she had missed him in his mysterious absence; how she had lamented over the potential loss of her master, to believe he may have truly left her… How she had mourned and feared for him…_

_As had Bellatrix._

_His dear, dear Bella. His most faithful follower, his most devoted…_

_It had been Bellatrix to whom he had appeared first… and he had found her where it all began._

_At that house in Godric's Hollow where he had vanished the first time, where that fated family had once hidden from him, had hidden the boy within its walls, out of his reach…_

_…Until it wasn't._

_It was the closest thing he had to a tomb, that destroyed and broken home._

_Bellatrix had been waiting there for him, lamenting what she refused to accept as the loss of her master yet again… She stood with her black cloak pulled over her face, her hood shrouding her features in darkness and shadows…_

_But he knew her, would always know his most devoted…_

_And she knew him too._

_It did not matter that he had changed. It did not matter that his physical appearance was so drastically altered from what he once was. He appeared before her, and her tearstained face became illuminated with recognition._

_With hope._

_She'd fallen to her knees before him, had whispered in fear and awe…_

_"My Lord…"_

_He was._

_Then through her, the rest. He had gathered his other followers, summoned them with his Mark… They saw him, and they believed._

_Bellatrix truly was his finest. She alone had voiced to him her distrust of Severus Snape, she alone had known all along what he was… and he had not listened… Even still, she continued to prove to him her worth. Alastor Moody had fallen at her hand. A powerful auror, a beloved member of the Order of the Phoenix… One who had imprisoned many of his own, in his time…_

_The Dark Lord held his newest prize in his long, pale fingers, examining it was keen interest._

_The eye._

_Abnormally large with a vivid, electric blue iris. He wondered vaguely what he might do with it. He hardly had any personal use for such a thing… Perhaps, he mused, he would send it back to them at some point…_

_An eye for an eye, indeed._

_He balanced it precariously on the tip of his index finger before letting it roll back into his open palm, his agile hands which were so much stronger than they'd ever been in his previous form._

_This body…_

_He had yet to test its limits._

_The phoenix magic coursing through him was like nothing he could have ever anticipated. Fire in his very veins, in his very soul… His skin radiated with its heat; his eyes glowed with its illuminating light… The resurrecting power of such a creature had restored some of his old features. He could see the resemblance when he searched for it…_

_But he was different._

_He was not the Tom Marvolo Riddle of his human days, nor was he the same Lord Voldemort he had been when he'd first gained immortality through the tearing of his soul._

_He was something wholly, entirely new. He was the eternal light of this deteriorating world, and he would be its savior._

_He wondered, now, if he was corporeally immortal as well. Were his horcruxes even necessary any longer? Were his body to be destroyed, would he simply be consumed in flames, only to be reborn again?_

_Would his tears heal wounds?_

_…As though there were anything left in this world which could cause him to shed tears._

_Still, he did wonder, just as he wondered about the feathers. Could he travel at a moment's notice, despite wards or barriers? Could he construct a new wand around one as a core…?_

_The wings of a phoenix… Beautiful, yes, but highly inconvenient. They rested flush against his back, folded tightly and out of sight completely beneath his robes. He thought to vanish them eventually, but not until he'd explored the potential of them._

_Fawkes…_

_He could hear the bird's lament even now, a continuous, sorrowful note in the background of his mind like the endless wind, like a voice…_

_Perhaps the phoenix had not really died after all…_

_Perhaps nothing ever truly did…_

_He was… becoming quite philosophical again. Maybe the heart of the immortal creature had resurrected more than just his body. He wondered, he wondered…_

_Bellatrix continued to gaze at him unabashedly, the blush on her cheeks from dancing and drinking making her even bolder than usual. How strange, he thought, to see that burning, desirous look in her eyes, that same inferno which had always been there, but which he had never fully comprehended until now…_

_How strange, to see it, to recognize it, and, now, to understand it. To know that it was aimed towards him, always him… Eternally unrequited, because he was conceived without that capability, was unable to even contemplate it until he had unwittingly taken the blood of another, of someone protected by such an ancient, pure form of it, and even then it was bestowed upon him with the sole capacity to be directed at only one person, and how cruel was fate, to allow him to be born into this world without that ability, just to grant it to him in his later years, after he had grown accustomed to life without it—like giving the blind sight, only to plunge them into darkness again once they finally realized that what they were experiencing was—was_ light _—_

_The eye turned to dust in his hands._

_The sandy texture sifted through his clenched fingers, falling gently to the ground like crushed diamonds. There was blood on his palm where he'd pierced his own skin; a violent, inhuman orange-red—_

_'… Masssster…?'_

_Nagini, sensing his emotion, hissed soothingly in his ear. His dearest pet, his precious soul…_

Breathe.

_Would that voice never cease to haunt him?_

Breathe.

_Would he never be free?_

Breathe…

_He exhaled, stroking Nagini's body rhythmically. He breathed, but soon the lesser mortals of this world would not be granted such an undeserved blessing. The cathedral had just been the beginning…_

_…And it had been perfection._

_The muggles came up with their own delightful explanations, as they always do. A terrorist attack, some said. An act of God, said others, ones who claimed to believe in a different deity than the one being worshipped in that particular church. The beginning of the rapture, said some, a cleansing of the unpure…_

_An accident, most seemed to agree. A great misfortune caused by a gas leak of some form or another, which accounted for the strange color of the flames, the otherwise inexplicable black and indigo fire…_

_And it was here where the aurors pushed for acceptance. Chaos as they struggled, breaking their own laws and casting Unforgivables wherever they deemed it necessary, making certain politicians or religious figures say this or believe that, anything to make the act seem feasible by means other than his own, undeniable might…_

_But nothing, nothing could properly explain the stars in the sky, the constellation of his sign…_

_Not even two days later and the muggles already spoke of rebuilding. They truly were like ants, weren't they? Disgusting, filthy insects in the dirt, constantly constructing and consequently tearing apart the land, ripping it open and violently stripping it of its natural, limited resources… Clouding the air with their pollution, stuffing landfills with their waste, littering the oceans with their man-made plastics and trash that would far outlive any of them…_

_Destroying the Earth, this precious planet which was the source of all life, of all pure, ancient magic…_

_He would be its savior._

_Yet, for now, for the moment…_

_He would wait._

_He would let the Order wallow in their loss for the time being. He would let them lament the death of their fallen, allow them to grieve and accept… He would allow the muggle filth to begin to rebuild, he would allow new hope to blossom, watch them sow the seeds of possibility again…_

_Only to raze them the moment they began to flower._

_He would crush their hopes again, and again, and again._

_He would see them suffer._

_But something permanent had changed now. Something tangible had undeniably shifted the moment that St. Paul's had been consumed by his fire. Some muggles had begun referring to it as 'The Day God Died'._

_But Lord Voldemort knew there was no such thing._

_There was no God, there was no Devil. There was no right or wrong; no good, no evil…_

_No._

_There was only power, and those too weak to seek it._


	16. Can Anybody Find Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homework assignment - please listen to the song 'Somebody to Love' by Queen before you read this chapter. It will make it much, much better. 
> 
> :]

"This is divine."

Draco looked very content to be holding a glass of wine in his hand, swirling it around like the poised aristocrat that he surely thought he was. He closed his eyes and took another drink, letting out a long, low sigh afterwards and reclining back into his seat.

Harry normally would have rolled his eyes at this, but truth be told, he agreed. The wine was very good—not that he had much to compare it to, he supposed. Harry grinned and took another sip.

Ron, Hermione, Harry and Draco had moved to the kitchen, and were now seated around the table, relaxing. Snape alone had drained his glass completely after they'd made their toast, and afterwards he'd looked around at the three of them and their still full goblets distastefully, like they had just committed an obvious social faux pas. But then he'd sighed, shaking his head and leaving right then and there, muttering something along the lines of 'surrounded by children' on his way out.

Hermione smiled as she held her own glass up to the light. "It is quite good, isn't it?" she agreed, examining the wine keenly. And Harry thought it was very strange, to watch Bellatrix Lestrange look so innocently curious.

"How long are you two going to look like that?" Harry asked, checking his watch. It had been almost two hours.

"A while," Hermione sighed, looking up at the wall clock. "You know how the Polyjuice Potion I made in second year lasted only an hour?" Harry nodded—yes, he did remember, vividly—"Well, Professor Snape's brew lasts _twelve_." It was clear by her tone that Hermione was deeply impressed by this.

"Twelve hours!?" Ron balked, almost choking on his wine. "You mean we're stuck like this until—" He checked his watch, "—until seven in the evening!?"

Hermione nodded dismally. "I'm afraid so."

Ron's miserable expression was quite humorous on the face of Crabbe senior. "But it's only eight thirty," he moaned.

"Yes. We are in for a very long, interesting day." Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Speaking of…"

She started unlacing the tall boots around her calves. "I need to get out of this horrible outfit. I don't know how she dresses like this all the time. This corset is suffocating." She pulled the shoes off, tossing them unceremoniously to the side where they landed on the floor with two loud _thunks_. Then she stood, barefoot.

"I'm going to go change," Hermione announced as she left the kitchen, that sultry swagger no longer in her step.

"Wish she'd keep the heels," Ron commented after she was out of earshot.

Draco sniggered. He was about to take another sip of wine when, quite suddenly, his leering expression vanished. "Wait," he said, lowering his glass. "You said something earlier about Crabbe," he said as he looked accusingly at Ron, his eyes narrowing. "And she just said she made Polyjuice Potion in our second year…"

He looked back and forth between Harry and Ron, his face a sinister glower that grew more and more pronounced as the other two, in great contrast, began to grin.

"Were you impersonating Crabbe?" Draco asked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah…" he said in a lofty, reminiscent voice.

Harry and Ron laughed. Draco set his glass down sharply.

"Why?"

"Well… It's a bit of a story," Harry started, not seeing the point in keeping such long-ago secrets hidden anymore. "You see—"

"Uh, Evans?"

Hermione's voice interrupted him, calling to him from down the hall. Harry turned in his seat.

"Do… Do you mind coming down here, for a minute?" she asked. She sounded nervous.

"Uh," Harry exchanged a wary glance with Ron. "Uh, sure," he responded. He gave Ron another skeptical look, but then left the room to see what was wrong.

He paused outside of the bathroom. "Everything all right?" he asked.

Hermione opened the door a crack, and Harry jumped. He didn't think he would be able to get used to those dark, hooded eyes staring back at in him, especially when they looked so… embarrassed?

"Um, do you mind—I hate to ask, but—could I borrow a sweatshirt and some shorts or something?" she said in a tiny voice. "It's just—Bellatrix has—well, my shirt doesn't fit anymore, and my jeans are uncomfortably tight…"

It took about two seconds of silent thought for Harry to put it all together. Bellatrix Lestrange was much more… endowed than Hermione Granger, and she was far shapelier.

She blushed. Harry snapped out of it.

"Oh. Oh, right. Okay. Sure. Yes."

"Thanks," she said meekly.

Harry rushed to his room, digging through his trunk to find a clean sweatshirt of some kind. There was one crumpled up on the floor, but even if it were clean, he didn't think she would want that one—it was massive enough on him, she would probably drown in it—but then he found something even better. Grinning far wider than he probably should have, he snatched up the clothes and headed back towards the bathroom.

"Here you go," he said as she opened the door again, reaching her hand out expectantly.

"Thanks," she repeated.

Still smiling, Harry returned to the kitchen.

"…So you see," Ron was explaining to a very perturbed-looking Malfoy, “we were trying to figure out who was responsible for all the attacks, and, well…"

"And you thought it was me?" Draco's eyebrows raised skeptically as he looked up at Harry. "Really?"

Harry sat back down, picking up his glass. "Well, yeah," he said. "You were sort of egging it on too, you know… Remember? Trying to sound like you knew things that no one else did, like you knew what was going on with the Chamber of Secrets and that we were all just stupid…"

Draco smirked. "I suppose I did… but still. You impersonated Crabbe and Goyle so that you could sneak in to the Slytherin common room and question me?"

His grin vanished. " _When_ did you do that?"

"Around Christmas," Ron said. "I was Crabbe, he was Goyle, and we just wandered around for a while at first because we didn't know where the common room was—or the password—and then you came along, and we just walked on in with you." He laughed. "It was surprisingly easy."

"Around Christmas…" Draco said slowly, his eyebrows knitting together as he concentrated. Then his eyes widened as the realization struck him. "I remember that!" he shouted, snapping his fingers. "They were acting so strange, getting so defensive when I made that comment about Granger, and then just taking off all of a sudden…"

He glared at Harry and Ron, but they were both laughing.

"We weren't the best actors," Ron admitted.

"Well then, it's a shame that I didn't get to go with you, isn't it?"

Hermione had returned, and the sight of her stunned them all.

Bellatrix Lestrange entered the kitchen wearing a handmade, knitted sweater which bore the image of a crudely rendered, black dragon. It was a bit large on her, and the baggy shorts she wore nearly covered her knees. Her long, thick mane was thrown up in a casual ponytail, and really, Harry thought genially, it was one of the most bizarrely surreal yet oddly delightful things he'd ever seen. She sat down next to him, perching herself cross-legged on her chair.

"Oh my God," Ron gaped, a smile slowly spreading on Crabbe senior's face. "Bellatrix Lestrange is wearing a sweater that my mum made."

He looked at Harry. "Amazing," he said in awe.

"It is a pretty good visual," Harry agreed before taking another sip of his wine. Hermione rolled her eyes before picking up her own glass.

"You were telling Malfoy about the Polyjuice Potion fiasco?"

"Oh, yeah," Ron said, looking back to Draco. "Well, we weren't very good actors, but we did figure out what we wanted to know. It wasn't _you_ opening up the Chamber of Secrets, much as you liked to insinuate that it was."

Malfoy grinned smugly. "You really thought that I was the heir of Slytherin…" he said, swirling the wine in his glass suavely. He tilted his head to one side, looking contemplative. "Well, I can hardly blame you. I am pretty much the epitome of all that Salazar Slytherin stands for. Cunning, deceptive, clever… a pureblood… and hey, who knows, maybe I am distantly related. All the pureblood families are, to some extent. Perhaps I am a Slytherin heir…”

He took another drink of wine, looking incredibly self-righteous…and Harry felt a sudden, very intense rush of spite.

"Oh?" he snapped. "Were _you_ the one being ridiculed, constantly called something that you were not? Were _you_ the one who went down into the Chamber of Secrets?" His voice became significantly darker when he asked, "Are _you_ a parselmouth?"

They all stared at Harry apprehensively, shocked by this unanticipated outburst. Draco lowered his glass slightly, looking like he was unsure if he should be nervous or annoyed.

"No," he said in a measured voice. "No… That's you, isn't it?"

Harry's menacing expression didn't waver. "That's right," he said firmly.

"That _is_ me."

…And for some reason, this made him feel much better.

There was a tense moment of silence. Harry took a long drink, not for a second taking his glare off Malfoy.

"…Riiiiight…" Ron finally said, drawing out the single word as a long, monotonous note. Then he clapped his hands together, effectively ending the strange, hostile staring contest that had broken out between the two. "Well, no one sitting at this table is actually the Heir of Slytherin, right? Right." He raised his glass jubilantly.

"Let's just drink to that then, shall we? Cheers."

"Cheers," Hermione piped up, clinking her glass to Ron's before taking a drink. She hiccupped after, and Harry's sudden anger was completely derailed.

"I just… I just want to watch you _do_ things," he said as he observed the form of Bellatrix bobbing one knee, a bit fidgety—just like Hermione tended to be.

"Like what?" She smiled as she took another drink. Harry wondered if maybe there was some truth to the assumption that women had a lower alcohol tolerance than men, because her cheeks were becoming a light tint of pink that he did not see on either of the others.

"Like… like, just say something that Bellatrix Lestrange would never say."

Hermione pursed her lips, staring up at the ceiling as she thought. Harry took the opportunity to refill her wine glass—they'd found the rest of the half-full bottle in the kitchen, much to Draco's delight.

A wicked grin crossed her face, and suddenly Bellatrix was back.

"Once," she said in a sultry voice, "I shaved my legs with an _electric_ razor. And—"

She lowered her voice to a whisper as she glanced at the three of them, like she was divulging a great, juicy secret:

"…It was _battery_ operated."

Harry and Ron laughed. Draco, however, looked confused. "What's a battery?" he asked.

Harry was about to explain, but Ron spoke first. "They're these little portable power tubes that muggles stick into devices so that they work. Like plugs." He looked to Harry for confirmation. "Right? Like plugs?"

Harry and Hermione shared an amused smile.

"Yes, Ron. Exactly like plugs," Harry said, very serious. Draco and Ron both nodded knowingly, as though they now completely understood the concept of electricity.

"Say something else," Ron prompted. "Tell us about yourself, Bellatrix. What is it like being the world's most feared Death Eater?"

Hermione quickly swallowed another large gulp of wine, and yes, Harry noted her cheeks were definitely rosy now. He also realized then exactly why Bellatrix Lestrange wore the outfits that she did every day. Without all that black leather and those tall, intimidating heels which made her literally tower above everyone else, she looked…quite harmless. Why, seeing her like this, with her hair tied up in a ponytail, sporting a knitted sweater and a flushed face… She almost looked—dare he even think it? She almost looked _cute_.

"Oh my goodness," she said, fanning out her nails with her hand which did not hold her glass. That sentence alone was enough to make Harry snort, because she said it like a full-blown, prissy, valley girl… an act which she continued to keep up impressively well.

"Being a Death Eater is, like… It's just the best. You guys don't even know."

"Tell us," Harry requested, grinning.

"Like… Oh gosh, it's just so fun! Except the meetings, of course, those can be _such_ a bore. Like, after getting out of Azkaban, I swear, they became so much more painful than they used to be. I mean, for real." She paused to take another drink. "…It's like, we all show up early, you know? Like we _should_ , except Snape, who always comes in five minutes late, and I'm like, what is this? Who the hell is this guy? And he's always all, 'My deepest apologies, My Lord, there was a pressing issue at Hogwarts…'(Harry nearly choked at Hermione's impersonation as Bellatrix impersonating Snape) and I'm just thinking, like what? What the hell were you doing that you couldn't have been here five minutes ago? It's ten at night! What, were you giving some abysmal student 'Remedial Potions lessons' again? Yeah, right! But the Dark Lord is all 'No matter, Severus…' (again, the secondary impersonation was incredible), and I'm just like, am I the only one who sees through this guy? Really? _Ugh!_ But anywaaaaay…"

She waved her hand about flippantly. Ron poured her more wine, laughing as he did. "Tell us more about Snape, Bellatrix," he said, chortling.

"Oh, don't even get me started," she gushed, leaning forward… definitely getting started. "That guy. I mean, when he gets talking at the meetings, it's just the worst. The 'goings-on at Hogwarts'…He doesn't ever actually tell us anything useful! He's always all 'Albus Dumbledore has been leaving the castle quite frequently, searching for the Boy Who Lived, but he has made no discernible progress.' And I'm just like, duh! We already knew that! Tell us something useful you, stupid, spineless fraud! Then it just gets worse from there, like 'Earlier this week, I managed to give three out of the four Weasley children detention, confiscate four dungbombs, and despite the fact that Hermione Granger managed to answer every single question I posed about antidotes correctly, I still accomplished the outrageous task of taking no less than twenty points from Gryffindor by the end of the period (Hermione's real voice became discernible here, despite her otherwise flawless acting)."

Ron was beside himself with laughter, and Draco too was beginning to turn red with his chuckling. Hermione, however, seemed to only just be getting into her stride. She resumed at once.

"So, I'm just thinking, great, Severus, really great. Thank goodness we have you to stop Gryffindor from winning the house cup. That will really help us with the goddamn war. _Tck_." She drained her glass. "And then, _then_ he bitches and moans about how oh, woe is him, he _so_ wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and he plans to apply for it again this year, and he hopes so desperately that he'll get it this time…"

Harry was about to refill her glass again, but Draco, astoundingly, had already beaten him to it. It seemed that the three boys had an unspoken, unanimous agreement that they each wanted nothing more than for Hermione Granger to continue to get even tipsier, because this… was gold.

Surprisingly, Hermione seemed to want that too. She lifted her glass so that Malfoy could fill it more easily in a snappish, impatient manner—a gesture that Harry could easily imagine the real Bellatrix doing. He wondered if maybe Hermione Granger was a bit too good of an actress.

"…So he's throwing himself a little pity party in the middle of the meeting, and the Dark Lord and I are just looking at each other, rolling our eyes at this point—we're always doing that, the Dark Lord and I, exchanging secret glances—he _only_ does that with me, because I am his _bestest_ friend—sometimes we play footisie under the table if we're really bored—"

That last statement had a profound effect on Draco. He literally fell out of his chair, laughing so hard that it sounded like he might be choking.

But Hermione didn't even crack a smile, despite the fact that the other three were all nearly in hysterics at her charade. She just kept right on going.

"But we're just like, Sevvy, darling, Dumbles is never going to give you that position! Look where you are, sweet cheeks! He's not about to encourage any more dark behavior! Seriously, he's stupid, but he's not that stupid! But then, wouldn't you know it, the very next goddamn meeting, and Snape bursts in—on time, for once—looking so happy there's practically rainbows shooting out of his arse, shouting the moment he gets in the room, _'I got the job!'_ , and I'm like, _are you fucking kidding me!?"_

She took another swig. Harry couldn't see through the tears in his eyes, and Draco, curled up in the fetal position on the floor, might have died several sentences ago. "Like, for real? Are you fucking kidding me right now! I spend eleven years in Azkaban, and this guy—this two-timing, fraudulent cockroach who has been living in a cushy goddamn castle the whole time—he gets his dream job! With a pension to boot!"

She slammed her free hand down on the table. "Sometimes," Bellatrix—er, Hermione—seethed, "Sometimes… I just wish the Dark Lord's snake would freak out and bite his greasy little head right off."

Harry threw his head back at that. _Oh, if only she knew…_

Ron was equally debilitated next to him, but Hermione, bless her, was still in character, drinking her wine and rolling her eyes disdainfully.

"I think," Harry finally choked out, glancing down at the shaking blonde on the floor, "…you may have killed Draco Malfoy. He might really be dead now. Look."

Sure enough, Draco was laughing so hard it was silent—there was no discernible sound coming out of his mouth, though he was shaking as he lay there.

Hermione smirked at him. "Have I?" she leered, getting to her feet. "Have I killed you, nephi-kins?"

Draco rolled onto his backside, trying desperately to compose himself. "…I… _footsie_ —"

And then he lost it again. Hermione grinned wickedly. "Tee hee!" she said, leaning over him and poking him in the stomach with the tip of her wand. His body instantly curled into a ball like a roly-poly bug, shaking with silent laughter again. "Ha, ha, ha!" she shouted. With each word she poked him in the ribs, but he was too incapacitated to fight back.

"St-stop that…" he spluttered feebly, to the delight of Ron and Harry, who watched unhelpfully from the table, laughing.

It only ended when Malfoy finally did lash out at her, hitting her in the ankle and sending her slightly inebriated form falling. She stumbled and almost landed right on top of him. After a few moments, Ron managed to pull himself together enough to help her up (a curtesy which was not extended to Draco).

"Oh my God…" Harry said, wiping a tear away from his eye. "Hermione—you're—that was too much… But wait a second." He paused, only just now realizing _what_ it was she had said.

"Snape… Snape taught Defense last year?"

Malfoy finally made it back in his seat too, though his face was still pink from laughter. "Yeah…" he said, picking up his glass and draining the last of his wine.

"Really?" Harry looked round at Ron and Hermione—and it still felt very strange, to be directing his questions towards what looked very much like a bunch of Death Eaters around the kitchen table.

"Yep," Hermione answered, purposefully popping the 'P' on the end like a child and causing Draco to snort again.

But Harry didn't want to be derailed by laughter again quite yet. "But… then who taught Potions?"

"A man named Horace Slughorn. A fat, old walrus," Draco answered. Clearly he did not much care for the man.

"Really pompous, greedy old wizard," Ron added. Apparently, he shared Malfoy's sentiments.

"Oh, he was all right,” said Hermione.

"Yeah, easy for you to say," Ron muttered. "He liked you, invited you to his little parties…" He gave Harry an annoyed expression. "He had a little club of all of his favorite students, all the people he thought were special or smart or whatever…"

"I take it only Hermione was invited?" Harry asked, but the sour expressions on their faces answered his question for him. "So…wait, you got to take Potions, then, Ron? Did you get an 'O', on your O.W.L?"

Ron laughed. "Oh, no. I got an 'E'. But Slughorn allowed 'E' students in his class."

Harry let that information sink in for a moment. If he had gone back to Hogwarts, he could have taken Potions… And he would have taken Defense with…

Well, he wouldn't have had a year without Snape, after all.

"What do you think Snape is doing right now?" he asked curiously. He'd been absent for a while.

Hermione sighed, looking concerned. "Probably sleeping, I would imagine. I don't think he's rested properly since in a very long time."

Ron seemed to notice her softened expression and frowned, seeming a bit annoyed… but Harry just nodded, recognizing that Hermione, like usual, was probably right.

"We're out of wine," Malfoy said, drawing their attention to him as he picked up the empty bottle. He glanced at Harry. "You should go get—"

"Some water, so we can all stay hydrated!" Ron immediately interrupted. Draco gave him a quizzical look, but Harry understood at once. Hermione did not know about the Firewhisky, and would probably disapprove of them getting completely smashed on booze which he had snuck in.

"That's a good idea, Ron," she said in a level voice, and suddenly the no-nonsense Hermione Granger they all knew had returned.

Ron shot Harry a quick, relief-filled glance before getting up, as if to say, 'that was a close one.'

Malfoy seemed to catch on then too. "Well, now what, Evans?" he drawled, swirling his empty goblet.

Harry grinned. He stood, and maybe the glass of wine had affected him more than he thought. The blood seemed to rush very quickly to his head at the action, and he felt a bit… buzzed.

"I know what we should do," he said, motioning for them stand as well.

"Follow me."

* * *

"Wow."

Harry wasn't sure what had made him want to share the wonder that was his Godfather's old bedroom with his friends. A few days ago, he would have been incensed if any of them had so much as set a foot in it. Maybe it was the wine; maybe it was the sudden desire he had to smoke another cigarette… or maybe it was the fact that the idea of seeing Bellatrix Lestrange in sweats, admiring the still, muggle images on her detested cousin's bedroom walls… Well, that was just too good to pass up, wasn't it?

Hermione ran her hands over a large band poster of the Beatles. She grinned at it. "I have this same poster in my bedroom," she said fondly.

"Whoa, look at all this stuff." Ron was digging through the closet, which contained many boxes filled with a variety of strange items. "Look at all the belts he had… and a camera! I wonder if it's got magical or muggle film in it… He has a lot of muggle things in here…"

Harry joined Ron at the closet, opening up another box. He smiled broadly as he uncovered a black scarf and a pair of vintage, gold aviators. He immediately put both on.

"What do you think?" he said, looking up at Ron. The face of Crabbe senior nodded approvingly back at him, smirking, and he turned to Draco.

"What say you, Malfoy? Do I pull this look off?" he asked, striking a majestic pose.

Draco, who had been distastefully examining the muggle calendar with the bikini-clad, rockabilly pin-up girl, glanced over at him… and frowned. "Damn you, you actually do," he muttered, sounding very unhappy about it.

Harry's eyes widened at the unexpected answer—not that Malfoy could see that, as the sunglasses concealed his shocked expression—but Draco seemed to realize at once that he'd actually complimented him. He instantly cleared his throat, looking back towards the calendar.

"Ha!" Harry shouted as he strode across the room to look at himself in the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair, purposefully messing it up even more, and really, he thought, as he struck another regal stance, he did look pretty good in them. "If I ever get out of this house, I will definitely buy and make myself an enchanted, flying motorcycle to ride."

His reflection took on a disheartened look. "Must you?" it asked warily.

"But of course. I have the look for it," Harry answered before turning away. He went back to the box he had been looking through. "Sirius really did have all sort of crazy things… Oh, look!"

Everyone turned to find out what he had uncovered. Harry held his newest prize up above him so they all could see.

"A muggle radio!"

It was an old, small, somewhat beat-up device, black with an AM/FM frequency dial and a skinny, long antennae which Harry immediately extended. He turned it on, messing with the little knobs, but was greeted with only static.

"Aw," he said forlornly. "It doesn't work…"

"Of course it doesn't work," Hermione chided, sounded exasperated. "It's an electronic device, this house is way too oversaturated with magical enchantments for any kind of muggle object like that to work correctly…"

But Harry refused to accept defeat so quickly. He contined to fuss with the dials as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed. The prospect of music was just too great a temptation to resist.

"C'mon, baby," he said in a flirty voice, sticking his lower lip out. He peered at the radio over the rims of his aviators. "Play me a song."

…Why, it was like it had just been waiting for him to ask.

Another moment of static, and then—a beat, a very familiar, rhythmic beat—

_Bum-bum-bum_

_Another one bites the dust…_

Harry smiled so widely it hurt.

"Oh my god," Hermione gushed, jumping on the bed behind him and looking at the radio over his shoulder. "Sirius must have enchanted it…"

"Excellent," Harry laughed. He turned the volume up. "Great band, too."

_And another one down, and another one down, another one bites the dust…_

"Who is it?" Malfoy asked, scrutinizing the radio from the other side of the room.

"What do you mean, who is it?" Harry said incredulously. "It's Queen of course."

"Is that some _muggle_ band?" Draco drawled.

"Actually," Ron said, "A lot of wizarding families know Queen. Freddie Mercury was a squib, everyone knows that, that's why he changed his name… You've really never heard of Queen, Malfoy?"

Harry was completely blown away by the statement 'Freddie Mercury was a squib', but Malfoy just huffed like he'd been greatly offended. "I have not," he said firmly.

"Oh, come off it," Harry argued, still not believing him. "Everyone knows Queen. I bet there are pureblood witches living in China who don't even speak English who know this band." Ron and Hermione both laughed, but Malfoy stuck his nose up haughtily in denial.

"Well not me."

Harry sighed, turning the knob on the radio again. Another moment of static, and then a much less energetic song began to play. It was slow and sad and very much a ballad…

_…There's no chance for us… It's all decided for us… This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us..._

_Who wants…to live…forever? Who dares…to love…FOREVER?_

_When love must DIE…?_

"Huh," Harry chortled, looking round at Hermione. "Guess it only knows Queen."

Hermione sighed. It was very surreal to watch Bellatrix Lestrange exhaling longingly like a love-struck school girl. "I adore this song. It's beautiful, yet so tragic."

She put her hand to her chest, swelling with emotion as the music went on.

_But touch my tears with your lips… Touch my world with your fingertips…_

"Uh, yeah?" Harry said as he and Ron shared a skeptical glance. "Maybe something a bit less depressing, then—"

_And we…can have…forever! And we…can love…FOREVER!_

He turned the dial again, and this time, the song was perfect.

_Can anybody…find me…_

"That's more like it," Harry said, setting the radio on the dresser.

_Somebody to love…?_

The piano started, and Harry put his hands out in front of him, drumming his fingers along the keys of the non-existent instrument and playing the empty air. When the lyrics started he sang the words, serenading a grinning, rosy-cheeked Bellatrix—er, Hermione—

"Each morning I get up I die a little, can barely stand on my feet—"

Hermione smiled, looking delighted. She immediately joined in on the parts of the song where the choir sang, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and spinning him so that he faced the mirror.

"Take a look at yourself!"

Harry did. His reflection… looked annoyed.

"Take a look in the mirror and cry, Lord, what you're doing to me…" he sang towards it, extended his arm at himself. His mirror-self's irritated expression deepened.

"I have spent all my years in believing you, but I just can't get no relief, Lord!"

Ron laughed, joining Hermione at the background, choral parts. Malfoy was looking at all of them with utmost disgust. It was the same expression that Harry recalled seeing on his mother, like there was a bad smell under his nose.

"Somebody, ohhh, somebody, can anybody find me…"

Harry pointed at Draco, who flinched as though Harry had just hit him.

"Somebody to love?"

Maybe it was because Harry could just tell that Draco knew the song and didn't want to admit it, or maybe it was because he was enjoying his discomfort so much at being sung at by Harry, Hermione (currently Bellatrix) and Ron (currently his best mate's father)… and, yes, maybe the wine had something to do with it, too; but all three of them simultaneously made it their mission at that moment to rope Draco Malfoy into this impromptu sing-along whether he liked it or not.

Harry took the lead, and Ron and Hermione were his back-up.

"I work hard ("he works hard!") every day of my life, I work 'til I ache my bones! At the end ("at the end of the day!") I take home my hard-earned pay all on my own!"

Harry dove forward, landing on his knees at Malfoy's feet and clasping his hands together.

"I get down on my knees and I start to pray—"

Hermione and Ron stood on either side of him, tossing their hands up in the air when they shouted, "Praise the Lord!" behind him.

"'Til the tears run down from my eyes, Lord!"

Harry jumped to his feet, throwing his arm around a completely flustered Draco Malfoy.

"Somebody, oh somebody, can anybody find me…"

He put his free arm up into the air, as if he were addressing the question to the sky itself… and Draco finally cracked, smiling.

"…Somebody to love?"

They all sang it, even Malfoy. Harry looked round in surprise at an unexpected flash of bright light. Ron was grinning mischievously at him, the camera he had found earlier in his hands. Apparently he wanted documented evidence that Draco Malfoy did, in fact, listen to 'muggle music'.

It was then that Harry noticed that the music was getting louder… very loud, as if the volume had been incrementally getting higher and higher the longer the song played. Had Sirius charmed it to do that too…?

But none of the others seemed to notice or care. Harry turned to the mirror again, belting out the next words to it, and Draco was a filthy liar, because he knew every single word after all, and couldn't seem to help himself anymore, joining in despite the fact that Ron had just photographed them.

"Every day, I try and I try and I try, but everybody wants to put me down! They say I'm goin' crazy!" Harry ripped the sunglasses off, tossing them across the room. It looked like he was even going to win over his moody reflection, for the Harry Potter in the mirror, who had been sort of glowering at him before, now looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Harry grabbed a hairbrush from the top of the dresser and began to use it as a make-believe microphone.

"They say I got a lot of water in my brain! I got no common sense, I got nobody left to belieeeeeve!"

Ron, Draco, and Hermione were all shouting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" right along with the choir, and the music was so loud it was now deafening.

Which was probably why Snape appeared.

He made his typical, silent appearance in the doorway—not that they would have heard him over the blaring song, anyway—and he looked… Well, he looked exactly as Harry would have imagined he might look at happening upon this very bizarre and unlikely situation. There were large bags under his eyes, and maybe Hermione had been right, and he had been resting…

But no one could possibly sleep through this noise.

The guitar solo was underway, and Hermione had untied her current mane of curly, black locks, and—Harry couldn't believe it—she was playing the air guitar, just like he'd been playing the piano earlier, and was there ever a more wonderful sight than seeing Bellatrix Lestrange rock out to Queen while wearing a Weasley sweater?

Snape looked like his brain had short-circuited, and he was trying to figure out how, over the course of what—an hour? Maybe two, max?—and _one_ bottle of wine, the morning had deteriorated from 'A Toast to Operation Gringotts: A Success' to 'Harry Potter: The Musical’, featuring Hermione Granger as Bellatrix Lestrange, Ronald Weasley as Crabbe senior, and Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy as themselves.

Harry thought the expression on his sallow face nearly matched the one he'd had when he'd discovered that Lord Voldemort had been invading his dreams. Snape was completely still, struck immobile at the ridiculousness of it all, his wand held uselessly at his side.

Severus Snape was serenaded next.

Harry jumped onto the bed, still using the hairbrush as a mic. He looked right at his ex-professor when he sang, and Snape looked dumbstruck—and mildly horrified—

"Got no feel, I got no rhythm, I just keep losing my beat!"

The other three pointed at Harry, shouting, "You keep losing and losing!"

"I'm okay, I'm alright," ("he's all right, he's all right!") "I ain't gonna face no defeat!" Harry pulled the scarf off from around his neck and tossed it at Snape's face, who started, finally seeming to regain some sense of mobility. He looked round to the radio on the dresser, glaring at it venomously.

"I just gotta get out of this prison cell!" Harry roared, raising his arms up above his head. He was the overzealous priest, and the others on the floor around the bed were his rapt, divine followers, and they threw their arms up with him, joining in his gospel-like song—

"Someday I'm gonna be free, Loooord!"

It was then that Snape flicked his wand at the tiny (yet horrendously loud) radio. It combusted, breaking into several pieces. The music, just as it had reached its crescendo, stopped.

The air rang in silence. Harry lowered his hands, forlorn.

"Kill-joy," Ron muttered as his arms fell loudly to his sides. Harry was sure that Snape was about to seethe something angry at him—or perhaps hit him with a stinging hex, as he tended to do—but then, somehow, miraculously… the song was coming back.

_Find...me…somebody to love—_

It started very quietly, a low chant, but the charmed radio continued to emit music from each of its broken pieces.

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

A bit louder, this time, just as the actual song went…

Harry acted before Snape could.

"RUN!" he yelled, jumping down from the bed and snatching up one of the radio fragments. The other three immediately followed suit, and Hermione let out a very high-pitched squeal that Harry found very out of character for _her_ , let alone Bellatrix.

"Get back here!" Snape yelled. Spells were fired—Harry thought he heard someone go down, and could only imagine it was Ron, as he was both the last one out and the largest. Crabbe senior was not exactly agile…

But he, Harry, was in the lead. He scrambled down the stairs, through the hall, Draco and Hermione at his heels.

And then, for the first time, he saw Phineas Black.

His portrait had remained ostentatiously absent the entire time since he, Harry, had returned to Grimmauld Place. He'd assumed that Phineas simply stayed in his frame at Hogwarts after Sirius had died… But there he was, perhaps drawn by the sound of the impossibly loud music, and Harry was dashing past, grinning…

"Hi, Phineas," he panted quickly as he ran—and if the sight of the 'missing' Undesirable running amuck in his house wasn't shocking enough, the next thing he saw was—

"Hello!" Hermione gasped, though it appeared to an uninformed outsider to be none other than Bellatrix Lestrange in a sweater and shorts, giggling as Harry grabbed her hand, pulling her along like they were the best of friends. And then Draco Malfoy, who sprinted past right behind them, saying nothing at all.

Then, only moments after that, Severus Snape giving chase and looking murderous, brandishing his wand and shouting, "Stop that infernal racket!". All the while the words _'Find…me… somebody to love',_ repeated over and over and over, continually getting louder and louder.

But Harry couldn't be bothered by whatever Phineas Black possibly thought at the moment. He, Hermione, and Draco scattered when they came to the middle of the hall, each taking a piece of the enchanted radio with them in opposite directions so that Snape would have to catch all three of them to make the music stop.

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

It was getting louder and the choir was thundering. Harry thought he heard a high-pitched squeal, and he assumed that meant Hermione was down now too.

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

He dashed into the kitchen, the bit of radio clutched tightly in his fist. But even an enchanted radio couldn't play forever once it had been blown apart, it seemed, because it was beginning to sound static-y, fading in and out…

_Find-me-love—_

Draco burst in after him, panting and sweaty. As the mantra came to an end they looked at each other, laughing, belting the words out together over the now static-ridden song:

_"Can anybody find MEEEE…?"_

They jumped, about to run away again when the door was flung open, but it was Hermione, not Snape. She had somehow managed to escape, though she had lost the piece of radio she'd had before. She was laughing, about to say something—

She froze.

Her mirthful expression vanished as she looked at Harry with giant eyes. The blood left her face in an instant, leaving her pale as death, and her lips formed into a perfect little 'o' of surprise.

The radio, just as it had hit another climactic moment of the song, stopped playing completely. The music came to an abrupt end. Harry felt like the entire world had come to a shuddering halt as he stared at the face of Bellatrix Lestrange, who was Hermione, who looked very, very afraid.

"What?" Harry gasped, the smile fading from his lips. Because Hermione was not making eye contact with him, not quite; she was staring fixatedly at his sternum… Harry dropped the radio fragment to the floor, an ominous feeling of dread washing over him…

"What? Hermione, what, what is it?"

"Give me the pieces of that damned, cursed radio!"

Snape came charging in, his wand held threateningly in front of him. Hermione's arm shot out the moment he passed through the doorway, her palm hitting him about the waist and blocking his path. He glared at her, opening his mouth to seethe something or another, but then he seemed to notice the ominous atmosphere in the room and paused. Hermione's eyes—those dark, hooded eyes—never once left Harry's chest.

Harry glimpsed down, and then he noticed what she was looking at. The locket had come out from under his shirt at some point… probably when he'd whipped that scarf off to throw it at Snape. Hermione was staring at it as if it were some kind of living, poisonous snake wrapped around his neck. He glanced back at her, confused. The fearful look on her face sent a violent thrill of terror up his spine.

Hermione took a hesitant step towards him. She looked into his eyes, forcing a very strained, taut smile that somehow made Harry even more anxious. The way she was advancing on him was so cautious, so measured—the way someone might approach a ticking time bomb, for fear that it could go off at any moment if there was too sudden a movement.

"Evans…?" Hermione said in a hushed voice. Her eyes darted from his face to the locket and back again, and he clutched his fist around it defensively. She took another tiny step forward, extending her hand with her palm facing up. Her fingers were visibly trembling.

"…May I… May I see that locket…?"

* * *

_The Chamber of Secrets._

_Lord Voldemort walked slowly on its hard, stone floor, the shallow water cool beneath his bare feet… but he did not feel the cold… It no longer bothered him in this form; it was no longer an affliction…_

_One more weakness which he had defeated. He did not suffer from hunger, he did not suffer from the cold…_

_Did he even require sleep any longer?_

_He had not slept in… He had not slept since…_

_…_

_It had…been a long time since Lord Voldemort had fallen into slumber._

_For a while, he thought he may never sleep again._

_He had not felt particularly tired even moments ago…but his Death Eaters had finally departed, exhaustion claiming them in their much weaker, mortal forms… Even his dear Bella had been lost to it eventually, the wariness draining her of that manic energy, pulling her into unconsciousness… Sleep, so that she may wake again with renewed life in the sunlight…_

_And Nagini…his precious soul… She, too, had drifted to sleep on his very shoulders, her body coiled intimately around him… While she had always adored being near to him physically, had always wanted nothing but to be in his presence, now… Now, in his new form, as he radiated an eternal, welcoming warmth, her coldblooded body was drawn to him even more, even in slumber… If he did not physically remove her from his person to place her gently on the hearth near the fire, she would probably choose to stay wrapped around him forever…_

_Though her reptilian eyes remained open, he knew she slept. He could feel the peaceful rhythm of her cold blood pulsing through her body, and it soothed him… It was this, perhaps, more than anything that lulled him into slumber himself… A conscious decision, of course; Lord Voldemort had made the choice to sleep, allowing himself to be pulled under the veil of unconsciousness…_

_And so, on the seventh day after his resurrection from that World of White… the Dark Lord rested._

_…_

_The Chamber of Secrets._

_It was logical, of course, that his dreams would bring him here. This place, this great achievement of his ancestor… Where he, Lord Voldemort, had awoken the basilisk, had continued his noble mission… And again, years later, his diary-self had done the same thing…_

_But the Chamber was empty now… The basilisk, gone, the diary, gone…_

_Gone…_

_Gone…_

_G—_

"It's a bit chilly in here, don't you think?"

_…That voice. It was impossible. Impossible, because that man was also g—_

"Bit of a draft, too."

…

Voldemort turned.

_“…You.”_

The murderous hiss slipped between his own, barred teeth, the one word containing more venom than the bite of a basilisk.

Albus Dumbledore smiled at him.

"Hello, Tom," he said causally.

Voldemort nearly flinched at the sound of that name…nearly, but he did not, nor did he comment on it. "Get out," he seethed instead.

"But I've only just arrived!" Dumbledore shouted jovially, those blue eyes flashing like fairy lights. He looked at Voldemort appraisingly.

The Dark Lord was exerting all his willpower into banishing him, to vanishing this abomination from his dream… But it was not working. Why was his subconscious conjuring the personification of Albus Dumbledore?

There was… no one he would like to see less.

"Now that is just rude," Dumbledore said astutely, as though he had said that out loud.

"How are you here?" Voldemort spat.

Dumbledore shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. This is, as they say… your party."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed even more. Dumbledore said nothing after that. He began humming a strange tune, examining his left hand curiously, flexing it experimentally… smiling, like he was so pleased that he could simply make a fist…

"I took your wand," Voldemort suddenly shot out, surprising even himself at the unexpected outburst. Dumbledore did not look up at him at the statement, only continued to inspect his hand, holding it in front of him now as though he were admiring his nails.

"Did you, now?" he said airily. Voldemort felt a powerful rush a annoyance at his lack of respect, at the fact that he did not so much as look at him when he spoke.

"I pried it from your cold, dead fingers," Voldemort continued cruelly. "I am the Master of the Elder Wand now."

He was smirking evilly at him, eager to see the dreadful realization wash over that calm, aged face as the old man discovered that he, Lord Voldemort, had figured it out, had divined that the Deathstick was real, and that he, Dumbledore, had held it all long, and that now—

"Are you?" Dumbledore asked in that same tone of slight indifference, still not looking up. He snapped his fingers suddenly, grinning as the sharp sound echoed in the Chamber. "Are you really…"

Another powerful wave of anger wracked through Voldemort. "I killed your phoenix," he spat this time. And then, as if to prove the point, he extended his wings to their full, majestic width. The span of them was massive, feathers of gold and red glimmering in the small amount of light within the dismal Chamber, but they emitted a soft, ethereal glow of their own accord…

This time, Dumbledore looked. Voldemort grinned sadistically. "I drank its blood and consumed its heart," he said as he watched Dumbledore's eyes rove over the span of his wings.

"I have killed your precious Fawkes."

He waited for the expression of horror to show itself on that cursed face… but it never came. Instead, in that same, light tone, Dumbledore replied, "Again, Tom… I question the accuracy of your statement."

 _"I claimed its life,"_ Voldemort snarled, his wings twitching. He then took in Dumbledore's full appearance, and he smirked again. "Is that why you are wearing robes of black, Albus Dumbledore?" he leered scathingly. "Are you dressed in mourning for the death of your precious pet…? Or perhaps it is your own death you lament…"

"Am I wearing black?" Dumbledore muttered quietly as he looked down at himself. "…Ah, yes. It appears that I am. How very unfashionable of me. That is not my typical style, you know. I prefer something with a bit more pizzazz, a bit of sparkle…" He sighed. "But this is your world, not mine…"

Voldemort blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by that strange declaration.

"Incidentally," Dumbledore continued, quite nonchalantly, "where are we, exactly?" He peered around the Dark Chamber over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his eyebrows raised as he examined the vast corridor.

Voldemort's lewd grin slid back into place. "You, Albus Dumbledore, stand in the Chamber of Secrets. The very one which no one believed to exist, which everyone thought a mere myth… Which I uncovered, which I reopened… The great, hidden Chamber of Salazar Slytherin, which no one, not even you, believed to—"

"Oh, I always believed in it," Dumbledore said flippantly, cutting him off.

Voldemort snarled. "You did not," he fumed. "It was I who found it, no one else had uncovered it for centuries until I—"

"I never said I _found_ it," Dumbledore interrupted again. Voldemort felt his fingers twitch again in pure agitation. "I only said I believed in it. One need not see something to believe it is real, Tom…"

His voice drifted off dreamily. Dumbledore readjusted his glasses back onto the bridge of his crooked nose. He glanced about the Chamber with much clearer eyes, as though he had been unable to properly see anything before Voldemort had told him where, exactly, they were.

He looked back at the Dark Lord, his head tilted to one side as he examined his wings. "My, how you've changed, Tom," he said before returning his gaze to his face. "Having a nose suits you." He smiled playfully. "You look good, phoenix born."

"You look good… dead," Voldemort shot back icily. But Dumbledore only chuckled.

"Truly, Tom… my phoenix? I must admit, not even I saw that one coming… However, I do not know if I would say he is dead… Consider this." Dumbledore took a step closer to him, his eyes twinkling. Voldemort watched him suspiciously, but did not back away.

"I have been in your dream for several minutes now, an unwelcome visitor—a dead one, as you so kindly pointed out—into your mind… The one man you've claimed all your life to hate above everyone else, one of your greatest threats… And yet you have not moved to strike me even once. You have not so much as thought about it, in fact, when you could have. I am utterly defenseless. You took my wand, remember? And the ability to raise my own wand against met— the Elder Wand, the Deathstick… Why, that seems the kind of golden opportunity that the old Lord Voldemort would be hard-pressed to pass up, don't you think?"

Voldemort stared at him for a moment as he digested his words. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even brighter.

"You should know better than anyone the potential consequences of playing with pure, ancient magic like that. Specifically blood magic, Tom… The heart and blood of my loyal, faithful Fawkes…? Really…"

And as Voldemort considered all of this, he realized it. That usual, instantaneous, fiery rage that he'd always had before at the sight—no, at the mere _mention_ of Dumbledore, before—

…It was simply not there.

Dumbledore's grin widened. "Why, you might even like me now," he said as he peered up at him over his glasses.

"No amount of ancient magic, pure of otherwise, could _possibly_ make me like you, old man," the Dark Lord fumed, clenching his hands into fists. "You made certain of that the moment you lit my wardrobe on fire at the orphanage."

He glared accusingly. Dumbledore's smile vanished.

"Yes…" he said slowly. "Fire… A dangerous affection we seem to have in common… Though my fire was not real, Tom, nor did it kill hundreds of innocents…"

For a long, drawn out moment, the two said nothing. They only looked at each other, each wearing a mask which was expressionless and cold.

"Is that why you are here?" Voldemort eventually asked, a feeling of ominous, dawning comprehension crawling up his spine. "Because I took the life of your faithful pet, because I consumed its heart…?"

His last words were practically a whisper, addressed more to the cavernous walls of the Chamber than they were to the former Headmaster.

"Have I unwittingly allowed the ghost of Albus Dumbledore access to my dreams, to my subconscious mind…?"

Lord Voldemort did not sound afraid, ever… but these words were very close.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I haven't the foggiest idea, Tom," he answered, and Voldemort's glower returned with a vengeance at his nonchalant demeanor. "No one has ever done such a thing before. You are, in a sense, the experimental trial." He paused for a moment, looking up again. "Did you know you would acquire wings?" he asked.

Voldemort glared, deliberating if he should even answer. "…No," he finally muttered. He turned away from him, folding the wings flush against his back.

"Huh," Dumbledore said. "That is strange. I wonder if you could use the feathers. They are dead useful, you know, phoenix feathers. One can use them to—"

"I know of the properties and uses of phoenix feathers, Dumbledore," Voldemort fumed, facing him again.

The older wizard inclined his head respectfully, but he was still smiling. "Ah, yes. Of course you do. Always so intelligent. But you have changed very much in other ways since I last saw you, Tom. And I am speaking about more than just the obvious, of course."

Voldemort said nothing, only continued to glare. Dumbledore's expression softened.

"…I once loved a man too, you know."

It felt like someone had reached into his chest and physically tied his stomach into knots. Voldemort _did_ wince, this time—a reaction which was not lost on Albus Dumbledore. He would have spat something vicious, something murderous, but it was like the air had been stolen from his lungs at that same moment.

"A man that was my enemy, a man I was meant to be the downfall of… A man whom I did go to meet in the end… Whom I defeated, and consequently imprisoned…" His eyes lost a bit of their luster, turning vacant as, quite suddenly, he was looking through Voldemort rather than at him…

"…Gellert Grindelwald," Voldemort confirmed quietly. Dumbledore nodded, his eyes refocusing.

"Yes," he said. "I fell in love with him. It was… unrequited. But I never stopped loving him, and never will… I watch him, sometimes, in his cell. He is in pain, in his old age; he suffers in his solitude… and it causes me pain, too… Nurmengard…"

Another long pause.

"Imprisoning those whom you have fallen for does tend to put an abrupt end to your love life, does it not? I never loved again, after him." Voldemort couldn't tell if Dumbledore was trying to make light of the situation or not, but the insinuation was there, and… and he felt so many foreign, coiled emotions at the words, at the accusation, none of which he wanted to address and all of which rendered him incapable of a retort.

"Should you happen to find yourself there… Should you happen to meet Gellert… Do me a favor, won't you?" The old wizard looked up at Voldemort expectantly.

"Tell him I was right. Death is not an ending, only another beginning."

Voldemort regained a bit of his composure at that. "And what makes you think I would ever deliver a message on your behalf, Dumbledore?" he said—though the words did not come out as venomous as he'd intended them to be.

Dumbledore shrugged, closing his eyes. "Perhaps you will get bored…"

Another long moment of silence.

Then, quite suddenly, those twinkling, blue irises were back, looking right at Voldemort with a new vigor. "Yes, my torrid love life came to an abrupt end then… but that didn't stop me from making a pass or two at Gilderoy Lockhart when he joined my staff.” He winked—an action which shocked the Dark Lord as much as it disturbed him. He chuckled at Voldemort’s incredulous expression. "What can I say? I have an exceptional weakness for blondes. Alas, beauty and brains rarely coexist within the same individual…"

He inclined his head demurely again, gesturing towards Voldemort. "An exception stands before me, of course."

Voldemort would have rolled his eyes, were he not above such petty and contrite actions. "Are you making a pass at _me_ , Dumbledore?" he muttered disdainfully.

Dumbledore laughed—loudly. "My goodness, no! Weren't you listening, Tom? I've just said I prefer blondes. Not raven-haired men..." His eyes glittered dangerously. "No, that's a bit more up your alley, isn't it?"

Lord Voldemort did not feel embarrassed, ever… but this sensation… was probably close to that.

Dumbledore grinned knowingly. "But your hair—which looks nice, by the way, much better than being bald—is it really black, anymore…? It is difficult to tell in such poor lighting. It looks as though you might have acquired the slightest hint of red during your transformation…"

Voldemort turned away, wanting nothing more than for this conversation—and this dream—to end. _Albus Dumbledore in the Chamber of Secrets_ … It was practically sacrilege that someone such as him should ever set foot in this place, be it subconscious or not.

"Yes, I am a bit out of place here, aren't I?" Dumbledore commented at his back. "But I suppose this makes perfect sense, for you…"

Voldemort faced him again, most reluctantly, to see the other wizard running a hand down his long, snow-white beard thoughtfully. "Robes of deepest black; the mysterious, disconsolate Chamber of Secrets… Very romantically dark, very macabre… Quite reminiscent of an Emily Dickinson poem, don't you think?"

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow at him despite himself. Dumbledore cleared his throat and closed his eye, speaking in a low voice as he recited:

_"…One need not be a Chamber, to be haunted… One need not be a House… The Brain has Corridors-surpassing…material place…"_

His voice trailed off quietly again before he looked back at Voldemort. His eyes were positively glittering in amusement. The Dark Lord flat out refused to acknowledge that he had any idea what the old man was talking about.

"I have always thought that the muggles made the best artists. Don't you agree? The best poets, the best painters… The best _musicians_ …"

He put a lot of emphasis on the last word, folding his hands behind his back and grinning playfully.

"Tell me, Tom, do you like… Queen?"

Voldemort stared.

"You know," he went on, waving a hand casually. "The band. Queen."

"Do I like _what?_ "

Dumbledore clicked his tongue disbelievingly a few times before responding. "Oh, come now, Tom," he chided. "Don't pretend not to know who I'm talking about. I bet there are— ha, oh, that _is_ good—I bet there are pureblood witches in China who don't even speak English who know Queen."

He began laughing quite hard at his own joke, so much so that he had to remove his glasses to wipe a tear from a twinkling, blue eye.

Voldemort continued to stare at him. "You are as mad in death as you were in life, Albus Dumbledore," he stated flatly before turning away again.

"Here. Take a listen."

Then it started.

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

Voldemort jumped, looking wildly above him—

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

"Where is that coming from?" he gasped, for it was above him to one side, and then the other—it was all around them, yet always from above—

"Are you doing that?"

"Maybe." Dumbledore answered innocently. "Ah, music…"

But Voldemort was beginning to feel panicked. There was light streaming in from somewhere now too, like rays of molten sunlight from the ceiling—but where was it coming from? There were no windows, here… The song continued to get louder and louder, a choir—a _chamber_ choir — _a chamber choir in the Chamber of Secrets_ —singing about _love_ —

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

Dumbledore was laughing. He had turned away, was now walking up the steps— _steps?_ Where had those come from?—up towards the light…

Voldemort was a jumbled mess of anxiety and disbelief. What was this? Were these voices, this choir, were they the voices of those he had killed in the cathedral? Was this the song of his victims, raining down upon him in his dreams—this nightmare?

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

Dumbledore let out a loud "Ha!", looking over his shoulder as he shouted. "Always so morbid, Tom. Why, sometimes…it's just music! And oh, look, your hair—yes, I can see it now, in the light…" He pointed at him.

"Red. A deep, deep shade of red. I was right." He winked again. "I generally am."

Then he turned around and kept walking up the stairs, swaying slightly with the beat…

_Somebody—somebody—somebody to love—_

The song was becoming louder, the light brighter, blindingly so. The Dark Lord realized then, that this light—it was consciousness. The light of day, calling him to wakefulness. He clung to it, thinking that if this, _this_ was what he had to look forward to in his dreams… he would never sleep again.

_Find…me…somebody to love—_

"Is this real?" he breathed as he watched the retreating form of Albus Dumbledore. His black robes were a stark contrast with the blinding white in front of him; a blot of ink to mar the otherwise pristine landscape that was that world of white…

"…or has this been happening inside my head…?"

He'd only whispered it, had barely said the words at all. There was no way that the old wizard could have feasibly heard it anyway. The music was now thunderous, surrounding them on all sides from up above…

_Can anybody find me—?_

Yet Dumbledore, now at the topmost stair, turned around regardless. The music and the booming choir came to a jarring halt, echoing ghost-like in the chamber. The fallen Headmaster smiled genially down at him as though Lord Voldemort were not a mass-murdering, powerful wizard, but an innocent, harmless child who knew nothing of the world.

He heard the response just as he was enveloped by light, lost to the whiteness.

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Tom…but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"


	17. Life Imitates Art

Hermione's hands trembled as she advanced, reaching towards Harry. He was consumed by an inexplicable wave of dread.

"Why?" he asked, taking an instinctual step away from her.

"What, are you that attached to your pretty necklace, Evans?" Hermione's focused gaze betrayed her for a moment to glance at Draco. Evidently, he did not sense the severity of the situation. "He's been wearing that stupid thing for a while now."

Hermione's other hand flew to her mouth as though she could physically stop the gasp that escaped the lips of Bellatrix Lestrange. She quickly looked back to Harry and then to Snape. Snape had most stealthily shifted, but Harry, with veins that were now flooding with adrenaline, had noticed. The Potions Master looked very much like he was preparing to strike, and the rage that had been on his face just seconds ago was completely gone, his expression now carefully focused and blank. His eyes were fixed on the locket in Harry's fist. Draco glanced back and forth between the three of them, completely confused, and Harry felt the overwhelming desire to run, _run_ —

"What?" Malfoy balked, now with a definite edge of concern in his voice. "What's the big deal, it's just a necklace."

_No—_

"Evans." Hermione took another step closer to Harry. Her face was a bit more resolute, her voice more level. "Give me the locket. Please." She flinched when Harry defensively recoiled away from her like a caged animal, his eyes darting between her, Snape, and the door in a manic way. "Just… just for a second," she said through another forced smile. Another step—

Time skipped.

One moment Harry was in the kitchen with Hermione, Draco, and Snape, and the next thing he knew he was screaming in pain, on his back on the floor in the drawing room. He was looking up, disoriented, and his blurry gaze was fixed on something sparkling above him… Something silver, shining… The other locket… And there was a deep longing still lingering in his mind that felt foreign and strange; a feeling of need, of hope.

But that sensation paled in comparison to the sweltering, scorching pain in his chest. Harry was howling in agony. It felt like someone had tried to burn a hole straight through his sternum, right into his very heart. The locket—his locket—was gone; his t-shirt had been literally burnt apart, straight down the middle, so that there were only scraps of singed fabric left around his shoulders and back. His bare chest was covered in soot and ash and blood, and an angry wound was throbbing with every beat of his rapid pulse, crying rivers of crimson, spidery trails of ruby lines snaking their way down his sides—

It was chaos.

"Get the sword!"

Harry tried to focus through the pain. Something intangible was holding him in place, pinning him to the ground—he couldn't move, he couldn't do anything other than struggle and scream—

"Ron! Now!"

There was a clamor of footsteps, wild and frenzied. Harry looked up and saw a Death Eater—no, Ron; he was holding something long and silver… A sword. And Harry _knew_ that sword, knew it and its ruby encrusted handle…

There was a clash of metal and something like the sound of a chain sliding wildly across the floor near to where he lay. Harry stared, horrified, bewildered—were they trying to stab his locket with the sword of Gryffindor…?

Then Snape's voice, surprisingly level and emotionless.

"It is inside."

"What the hell is going on!?" Draco was in the doorway, trying to stay clear of the madness, but he was staring at Harry, not the writhing, unnervingly animated necklace on the ground a few feet away from him. The silver chain was twisting and contorting around itself, like a living creature, like a snake.

"What kind of cursed object _is_ that!?"

Yet no one else was paying him or Harry any mind; Ron, Hermione and Snape were focused only on the locket. Snape was casting wordless spell after wordless spell on it, lighting up the space with different colors each time. The room was bathed in blue, then red, then yellow. They seemed to have no effect on the silver charm other than to make it thrive even more, like it was becoming stronger, more desperate.

"What's h-happening to him!?" Draco shouted another question, and this time, they followed his pointed finger to the figure on the floor.

Harry was no longer screaming or trying to thrash against the spell forcing him to remain on the ground. He was rolled onto his side, the blood from his wound soaking into the remains of his scorched shirt. Harry was taking in long, labored breaths, his eyes going in and out of focus. His heartbeat, which had been racing before, was slowing…

Hermione rushed to his side, pulling him onto his back again. "Evans!" she cried, her hands on his shoulders. "Oh no, oh no, no, no—"

She looked up to Snape, the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange full of desperation. "You're right, he'll have made it so—so that the only way is…" She looked back to Harry, propping him up gently. "Oh, oh Evans—we need you, stay with us! We need you to tell the locket to open…"

"…W…what…?" Harry felt lightheaded as Hermione supported him. The necklace was twisting around itself like a cobra, and Harry could swear it was… _hissing_ …

"Tell it to open, tell it in parseltongue, and you'll be okay—"

…It…it _was_ hissing, Harry could tell… He could hear the parseltongue in his mind; muffled, though, like being spoken to him through a paper cup…

'Don't do it—'

It was his voice… The voice of his…

'Don't do it, they will kill me, Harry—'

He sounded so… so afraid, so desperate… Even more afraid than when he, Harry, had nearly been lost to Lord Voldemort…

When he had saved him…

"What… No." Harry shook his heavy head. "No, I—"

"Evans, you have to, th-that's not a locket, that's—" Hermione spoke so quickly, and her voice, which was getting higher and higher with each word she spoke, trembled before she shrilly cried:

"There's a piece of you-know-who's soul in there! We need you to open it, only you can do it! We need to destroy it!"

Harry's slowly beating heart seemed to pause completely.

A piece…of his soul…?

'Don't let them kill me, Harry!'

"It's a… That's…" His world was falling apart, his head was swimming…

It was a horcrux…

'Please—'

It—he—was so frightened—

The locket was…was just like the diary, just like—

'Save me like I saved you—'

He sounded so desperate and choked with emotion—

But—

"No, no, I—"

"Step back."

Snape's command was cold and clinical. Hermione jumped out of the way, and Harry saw the wand being pointed at him through a haze, like he was in a world saturated in thick, moist mist… He tried to move, but he could not.

_"Imperio."_

…The weightless feeling that consumed him was utter bliss.

All the panic and fear, all the overwhelming, unwanted realizations that were the storm clouds brewing in his mind dissipated, replaced by a sensation of pure emptiness. It was miraculous to feel nothing, to be without that constant sensation of trepidation that had never once left him since he'd woken up—probably far before that, really…

'…Tell the locket to open… Use parseltongue and tell it to open…'

Wait… No, Harry thought, trying to recall what exactly had been causing those particular waves of dread from just moments before. He wasn't… He was being asked not to do that… by—

'…Just tell the locket to open… Tell it to open…'

But this voice sounded very nice too… Very warm, very kind…

'…Everything will be fine…' it went on reassuringly. '…Everything will be okay… Just tell the locket to open… Say 'open' in parseltongue…'

 _But… I don't know if I can,_ Harry thought emotionlessly. _I can only do it if there's a snake, or… something…_

'…Yes, you can…' the voice encouraged. '…Say 'open' in parseltongue… Just commit to obeying, and you can do it…'

There was a muffled sound, a hissing sound, but it was far, far away in this cloud of weightlessness… Why hadn't he wanted to obey again? This voice seemed to think it would be all right to… It was so…nice…

'…Say it…'

Harry opened his mouth hesitantly. The background hissing was suddenly a bit louder, but he couldn't make out the words… But, maybe…maybe he was supposed to be speaking in parseltongue, then…?

'…Yes, that's right… Say 'open'…'

"…O—"

No, it was no good, it was English. The strange, muffled hissing choked for a moment, and while he still couldn't make out what it was saying, it definitely sounded… upset…

'…Try again…'

 _No,_ Harry thought suddenly. He didn't like how distressed that other voice had just sounded, it bothered him… _No,_ he decided, _I don't think I will…_

The sensation of weightlessness abruptly increased, and the other, snake-like voice vanished in an instant. It swooshed through his entire body, this buoyant feeling and, why, it almost felt like flying—he was practically giddy with it, high on this warm, pleasant relief and total lack of other emotion—

'…Tell it to 'open' in parseltongue, now…'

The voice was sugary sweet, yet oddly forceful… _Are you sure I should be doing that..?_ Harry thought, but the feeling of lightness made it hard to see the harm in just listening…

'…Yes… Tell it to 'open', and everything will be wonderful… Just like this…'

 _Well,_ Harry thought, _all right, if you're certain… Are you certain? Are you really?_

'…Yes…' A bit more forceful, this time, but still rather pleasant…

_All right then, if you're very sure… I'll try…_

Harry took a deep breath, trying to think of snakes…

'…O…open…'

Several things happened at once.

The beautiful feeling of being weightless and airy vanished. Harry came violently crashing down from whatever magical high he'd been on, and the pain in his chest returned with a swift vengeance. His body was flung against the wall to the far side of the room, away from the rest of them, away from the necklace—

And his voice—Harry's voice was gone, stolen from his very throat, again—he tried to scream in agony, but couldn't—

And in a lightning flash of dread he realized what had just happened. He'd done it, he'd said it, and the rest of the occupants in the room were staring at the suddenly still locket on the floor, wands raised—all except Draco, who was in the opposite corner, looking terrified and confused. Ron had the sword in his hands, high above his head, ready to strike—why that sword, why _Gryffindor's bloody sword_ Harry had no idea, but he was certain, somehow, without a doubt, that it would—it would—

'No!' Harry tried to scream, but he made no sound. They didn't know, they didn't understand—

For a second, the entire room was completely still.

And then, the now innocent-looking, motionless locket… swung open.

…

…Another heartbeat…

…in which nothing happened.

Harry felt an instant surge of relief. They had been wrong, it was nothing… there was nothing in the locket, there was—

Music burst into the room.

A thunderous, deafeningly loud piano song blasted from the locket, and with it a ripple of power like a sonic boom emanating from the empty silver encasement. Everyone was sent stumbling backwards, wands went flying—the sword went clattering to the floor—

"No!" Hermione's shrill voice rang out, but it was hardly discernible over the song—the piano song…

 _His_ song…

"Get the sword, get the…!"

He was syre the yelling continued, but Harry could hear nothing but the music now… Nothing but that haunting melody, that rhapsody of his dreams, of his nightmare…

Smoke came billowing forth, coiling upwards from the locket. Tendrils in light, ethereal gray… Nearly…nearly white…

Could everyone see it…? Harry wasn't sure, but he wasn't paying attention to anyone else anymore… The smoke was curling into something, was forming into something tangible…

It was… It was _him_. It was he, Harry, playing the piano… and above him, standing over him at the bench, leaning down with his chest pressed into his backside was…

Riddle.

Tom Riddle, and he was guiding Harry hands like a marionette puppet master. His long, pale fingers hovered over the black and white keys, just above Harry's own, bringing the music from his dreams to his fingertips…

He was…smiling…

He was smiling,.Tom Riddle was smiling at him, and he looked so happy to be giving him the gift of music, and Harry felt that strange sensation of butterflies in his chest…

'I have seen you heart…'

He was whispering it in his ear, and it was so lovely…

'And it is mine…'

And suddenly, he remembered.

…

Harry remembered everything.

The memories struck him like wildfire; like multiple, simultaneous flashes of lightning straight into his mind. He remembered the scene— _this_ scene in the smoke and haze—he remembered playing the piano like that; he could feel it now, how wonderful it had been, to be able to make such lovely music so agilely, so quickly—

He remembered just moments ago—running, sprinting for the portkey and nearly making it, being so close —

He remembered last night; he remembered the _dream_ —

Harry remembered Tom Riddle revealing himself. He remembered the way he had said the words 'the diary…' like it was a cruel joke. He remembered Tom's sultry parseltongue in his ear and his lips on his neck; he remembered the way he'd stopped and said 'I would never do anything without your consent…' And Harry had believed him… still… still believed him, _wanted_ to believe him… He _needed_ to believe in something…

The locket was Tom Riddle. The locket was a horcrux.

Just like the diary.

Just like… just like him…

They were hunting things… They were _destroying_ things…

They were hunting horcruxes. They were killing pieces of Lord Voldemort's soul, piece by piece.

They were going to kill… They were going to kill the locket, this portion of Tom Riddle… But the locket had saved him! They didn't know that he had saved him from Lord Voldemort himself!

They didn't know that he—that he was—

_I am nothing like him._

He had said it himself, he had proven it, and Harry—he didn't want—he couldn't lose—

His vision was dimming.

There was movement all around him, and probably shouting too, but Harry could only hear the music… Yet that, too, was fading… The piano notes were becoming softer, quieter…

The fog shifted and something new began to materialize. A body, a silhouette coming to life in the ethereal haze…

…

Tom…

…

It was like he had quite abruptly gone deaf. The music vanished. There was no yelling, no sound of feet shuffling around him, no beautiful piano melody—nothing. Pure and utter silence in the room.

And Tom.

He was beautiful. Hauntingly so.

This Tom Riddle looked so very much like the Tom Riddle from the diary that he, Harry, had met in the Chamber of Secrets… Only it was not the diary, it was the locket, and it was not Ginny Weasley being drained of life…

It was him.

…

The next few seconds seemed to stretch on for an eternity. They would be vividly burned into Harry's memory forever.

His vision continued to dim. There was movement around them, there must have been, the others grappling for their wands, looking for the sword in the fog—but Harry's focus remained solely on Tom Marvolo Riddle, who, in turn, remained focused only on him. Harry felt so far away, shoved against the far side of the room, and he didn't even have a voice, or he would have told the locket to close again, he would say… something…

His life was flowing out of him, towards the vision of Tom that was becoming more substantial with each passing second. If it weren't for the spell keeping him pinned against the wall, Harry knew he would be a cold body on the floor, just like Ginny Weasley had been. His vision was fading to black, a darkness encircling the image of Tom Riddle in a dark, tunnel-like frame of darkness…

Tom was becoming corporal, which meant that he, Harry…was dying.

 _Go on then_ , Harry thought as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness _. Go on. Take my life, take the portkey and run. You saved me._

_I don't deserve to live, anyway._

_I'm worthless._

_Take my life._

_Take it._

_Take it._

_Take it._

Tom Riddle…did not.

He could have. The few, opportune moments that he needed were there, right within his reach. He could have drained Harry of all that he had and grabbed the necklace on the mantel before any of the others had located their wands; he could have left the Chosen One for dead and made a run for it… but he did not.

Tom did not move at all.

He just stared at Harry with an expression on his beautiful, porcelain-skin face that was utterly tragic. It was a look that said,

_What have you done?_

…And though it only lasted for a few seconds, it was the single most profound connection that Harry had ever had with another being in his entire life.

Tom Riddle's obsidian eyes—heartbroken, hopeless, betrayed—would haunt him forever.

…

His ability to hear returned to him with the sharp clash of metal on metal.

The smoke vanished. _He_ vanished.

Harry felt life rushing back into him in a powerful, dizzying surge.

He screamed with a guttural sound that came from somewhere dark and unknown to him before, saturated with an emotion which did not have a name. The spells which had robbed him of his voice and which kept him constrained against the wall broke like they were nothing more than rubber bands snapping in his hands.

There was screaming that was his, and there was screaming that wasn't.

There was static and lightning. His mind was a tempest and so his reality would be too—it was at his fingertips; he could taste the electric-like currents on his tongue—

But before Harry could unleash it, before he could dig his claws into the world and drag it down with him, he felt it. The familiar sensation of a stunning spell, right at his chest, right at his scorching, burning, bleeding wound. Right at his heart.

He fell into darkness.

…

…

…

The cupboard was empty.

* * *

_Art._

_Does life imitate it, or is it the other way around?_

_Do music, poetry, and visual exemplifications come from some deeply innate source of human connection from which stems the societal norms of everyday life, or are humans inspired by the beauty in the mundane to create great art which transcends such trivial acts…to connect with some kind of higher purpose?_

_Lord Voldemort, though he would never confess such a thought, tended to agree with the muggle man Oscar Wilde on the matter._

_Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life._

_…_

_The Dark Lord was not sure what, exactly, had spurred this sudden excursion, this strange need to act. He had not planned on such a thing, at least not for some time, and spontaneity was not exactly a trait which he usually displayed… Yet he had always found such solitary practices… therapeutic…_

_Lord Voldemort had many followers now, this was true, many supporters…_

_But he still preferred to work alone._

_If he was being completely honest with himself, he did know why he was here. This particular plan of action was inspired by his dream._

_'I always thought that muggles make the best artists, don't you agree…?'_

_…_

_The National Gallery in London._

_Today, this morning, at half past eleven, Lord Voldemort was a visitor._

_He walked quite casually among the muggles, a flawless glamour artfully in place… though how they did not perceive anything extraordinary about him at all, how they did not sense even the slightest tremor of something as he stalked past, was beyond him… Power was radiating off of his body in droves, the promise of their deaths saturating the air around him, thick and heavy with their demise…_

_But no one so much as gave him a second glance. He supposed it was blissful, willful ignorance…_

_No one looks for death in the daylight._

_…_

_For the next hour, muggles who were flocking to come and see the expansive collection of paintings on view in the National Gallery would suddenly remember, once they got too close to the establishment—an appointment, a meeting, a trivial distraction… They would turn around, back the way they had come…_

_And those who had already entered within the Gallery's walls…would never leave._

_…It was not the first time that Lord Voldemort had been here._

_No, he had been here once before. As a child._

_As Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_A school field trip. It was before he knew anything of the magical world, before he knew where he truly belonged. The muggle school which he'd attended had scheduled a day for the children to come and see the paintings, to observe the majesty that was 'fine art'…_

_Their teacher, an especially vulgar woman, had corralled them through the corridors, dragging them about the galleries before they'd found the tour guide in one large, energetic group._ Stay together, no wandering off—I saw that look, Tom, don't even think about it…

_For Tom Riddle had been exceptionally good at mysteriously disappearing, no matter how they tried to contain him._

_There was one painting that had struck something within him that day. It was one of the rare occasions in that foul, waste of a public educational facility in which he had actually learned something._

_...Something that had nothing to do with art._

_He stood before that painting now._

_Samson and Delilah, a work in oil by Peter Paul Rubens, done in the early 17th century._

_The children had crowded around it, the museum's appointed educational tour guide's eyes wide with wonder at the work. He made a spectacle of telling them about the piece, of the story that lay behind it…_

_And even now, as he viewed the work of art through the eyes of Lord Voldemort rather than the eyes of the child Tom Marvolo Riddle, he had the same thought._

_It was beautiful._

_It was, he would not deny that. The colors were rich and luscious, the figures were rendered in the marvelous, stylistic manner of the 17th century masters… The composition, flawless… and truly, in their stillness, muggle paintings really were… superior. Lord Voldemort would never say such a thing out loud, would never proclaim such a blasphemous thought…but in the privacy of his own mind, he thought it to be true. Magical paintings, while highly useful as tools with their ability to share information by moving between frames or conceal secretive pathways, were… utter failures as works of art. The personalities of their occupants were often stifling; the very fact that they could talk and move at all made them irritating—Lord Voldemort detested most real, living people, let alone painted representations of them—and what else was artwork for if not deep contemplation? Was art not meant to be experienced on a deeper level, to help the viewer perceive and reach some kind of philosophical state of mind that was, perhaps, even if just fleetingly… transcendence?_

_It was difficult to experience transcendence when the figurative image you were supposed to be observing kept asking you idiotic questions or walking out of the frame._

_Yes, Lord Voldemort secretly preferred muggle paintings to magical ones…which meant that, generally, as a whole, he disliked all of them. However, that did not mean that they were not beautiful, as the one before him was._

_Beautiful, but... meaningless._

_Completely meaningless._

_…_

_At least, it was meaningless to him then._

_…_

_The story of Samson and Delilah is a tragedy._

_Lord Voldemort remembered that day quite clearly. Their guide had been melodramatic, clearly used to the practice of putting on a show for the young students to which he was accustomed to working with. His voice had lowered mysteriously when he told them the story so that the children would gather in close, leaning forward in anticipation…_

_Samson was a man of God. He was born with a higher purpose, to save his people from the might of the war-hardened, Pagan worshippers, the Philistines. He was born with the gift of almighty strength._

_He was the most powerful man in the world._

_The Philistines were beginning to fear him, for Samson was moving to rise against them. Yet despite his strength, Samson had a great flaw. He had always been very solitary; he did not rely on others, ever. He trusted no one…_

_…until he fell in love._

_Samson fell in love with the woman known as Delilah. A Philistine, his very enemy. He fell in love, and no matter how his countrymen told him to stay away from her, he could not._

_The Philistinian army found out, of course._

_They spoke to Delilah. They persuaded her to help them overthrow Samson, to discover the mysterious cause of his godlike strength. They bribed her, swayed her, convinced her…_

_She agreed in the end. She was a Philistinian woman, after all, and her heart was with her people._

_Samson confided in her the source of his power. It was his hair, as it turned out. His long, uncut hair, which was the symbol of his vow to God. Without it, he was powerless. Delilah told her people. She betrayed him, and the Philistines plotted against Samson. They came to her home in the dead of night while he was sleeping in her arms, unaware. They cut his hair and stripped him of his power while he slept… They imprisoned him…_

_He was lost because of love, because he allowed himself to trust in another, which he had never done before. The painting depicted a statue of Venus, the Goddess of love, and Cupid, in the background. Beautifully rendered symbols of his downfall, representations of his demise…_

_The other children had gasped and sighed when the story came to this unhappy ending. They clutched their little hands to their chests, and one of the more emotional, outspoken girls even cried out 'No!' The guide had nodded, eyes full of empathetic emotion…_

_It was in this moment that Tom first realized it._

_He was too young to understand what it was he was figuring out exactly, but he knew then… there was something he was missing._

_He had already known he was different at that point, of course. He had already known he was special… He could move things without touching them, he could talk to snakes… He could hurt people, when he wanted…_

_But this had been different._

_Tom Riddle had looked around at the faces of his peers and saw something simmering in their eyes, something that he didn't have, and he didn't understand it. What was it that everyone else around him was experiencing? Why was it that no one seemed to make the same, simple conclusion that he had—that Samson was stupid; that he was wrong to trust Delilah. Why did they seem so sad and sympathetic over his demise when he had so idiotically devised it, had done it to himself…?_

_He didn't know it at the time, but he later figured it out. It was then, in that moment, when he'd first realized that he was born without that ability…_

_Tom Riddle could not love._

_…_

_He was seven._

_…Something small collided with his leg._

_Lord Voldemort had been so lost in his own reverie that he had not even heard them approach. Two children. Boys. One with blonde hair, one with black… And there was a group of them at the other end of the gallery. A school, perhaps? Just as when he had first come…_

_Two of the group had dashed off, and their teacher was now bidding for them to return… The dark haired boy had been chased by the blonde, laughing, and he had been looking over his shoulder while he ran. He had not noticed the still, ominous figure right in front of him, and he had run straight into his thigh…_

_Lord Voldemort did not move._

_The raven-haired child froze, too._

_The blonde, who had been giving chase, hesitated… Perhaps when they were young they were more perceptive, these muggles, because the blonde instantly turned and ran away, abandoning his friend to return to the safety which was his class… It was not the first time a child had instantly fled at the sight of him, the Dark Lord mused…_

_The dark-haired boy did not run. Lord Voldemort looked down at him, and the child was struck motionless under his gaze._

_…It was like he had quite abruptly gone deaf. The Gallery was, very suddenly, completely and utterly silent._

_Green, green eyes._

_But…were they really green?_

_Were they really like his, or was he just seeing them there because the boy had dark hair and wore glasses? Was he just superimposing those eyes onto the face of this muggle child because he was that desperate to see them again? Was he that horrifically, pathetically stuck on the thought of them, even still…?_

_Lord Voldemort lowered himself down to the child's eye level to better see for himself. The boy was paralyzed, his gaze locked onto his own almost hypnotically. Like he could see right through the glamour. Like he knew him for what he really was._

_He was afraid._

_The Dark Lord could feel the child’s hummingbird heart fluttering in his chest, could smell the fear rolling over his skin… such a tiny, fragile, thing…_

_Voldemort reached out a single, pale finger and tilted his chin up. The boy did nothing at all to stop him, but his heart lurched violently at his touch. The light caught in his eyes, reflected off the smooth surface of his glasses…_

_But…were they really green?_

_The Dark Lord's hands fingers fell from his face, gliding down to his tiny, fragile throat. He paused. The boy’s pulse was a thundering rhythm beneath his fingertips. So full of life._

_In a movement that was so quick it was undetectable, Lord Voldemort snapped the child's neck._

_The lights were still shining in his impossible eyes before he fell forward and the Dark Lord caught him. As he gently laid him down on the Gallery floor, he thought:_

Mercy.

_There was probably shouting then, there was probably screaming, but he did not hear anything. There was nothing but silence._

_Lord Voldemort stood and walked away._

_..._

_He exhaled the poison._

_The cursed air from his lungs permeated the space—invisible, toxic plumes that saturated the air._

_The cameras—every single muggle, recording instrument within The National Gallery—combusted and collapsed. They shattered apart and released tendrils of smoke. The only eyes which would witness these muggles’ tragic ends were made of oil and canvas, eternally still and un-seeing._

_Lord Voldemort walked._

_He walked at a measured pace as they began to asphyxiate. They slowly fell to their knees, gasping for breath, the poison displacing the oxygen as their skin turned red, then purple, then blue. He stepped over their thriving bodies when they attempted to reach out to him as he alone remained unaffected. He passed the guards in the lobby who were crumpled on top of each other, their broken, electronic devices smoking in their hands._

_The Dark Lord left through the main exit. He walked out onto the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. He joined the throng of the muggle crowds, became an anonymous pedestrian—another tangible ghost of London… He did not disapparate or disillusion himself, nor did he use the portkey he had in place…_

_He didn't even conjure the Dark Mark._

_He just walked._


	18. Hallows and Horcruxes

Harry was once more on the tiny cot in the cupboard, curled up in the fetal position as tightly as he possibly could be. A coiled, twisted, knot of a person.

…He'd screamed, at first.

He'd called for him over and over again. He called his name until his throat was raw and his voice was gone. 

Riddle didn't answer.

He hadn’t answered when Harry first called, his voice high and hopeful. He hadn't answered when Harry screamed angrily, demanding a response. He hadn’t answered when Harry begged, pleading and desperate.

He never answered… not even when Harry cried.

There was no one there. 

Now, after that frenzied slew of feelings, that chaotic stampede of emotion after emotion after emotion, Harry felt…

Nothing.

Hollow.

…

…What had he done?

He saw Tom's face. Saw those heart-wrenching, beautiful, broken black eyes.

_ What have you done? _

Harry suppressed the violent feelings that threatened to resurface, that swirled somewhere dangerously within him. He shoved them in a casket and nailed the lid shut, buried them in the blackest, darkest depths of his mind.

Keep them there. Lock them up.

He should have stayed a hollow shell the first time, Harry thought. After Sirius died.

Numb was better. Numb was easier.

…

…Had Tom Riddle really cared for him?

Harry now pondered the question with a cold, clinical detachment. Had he meant everything he'd said? Riddle had told him his soul was beautiful, that his mind was too… He had said that he, Harry, had brought his world to life…

And when he had spoken to him, just before…pleading, begging, just before it was all over--

_ ‘Don’t let them kill me!’ _

He had sounded so afraid…and he, Harry, had let it happen, he had been the cause…

Why hadn't he been able to throw off Snape's Imperius curse? Had he just been that desperate to feel weightless like that? Was it because he was already so mentally and physically weak? Because Tom was…

Tom Riddle was killing him.

He, Harry, had felt his life draining away. He had been so light-headed, so feeble and frail as he laid there…

But Tom didn't kill him.

Why?

_ Why  _ hadn't he done it? He was Tom Riddle. He was a horcrux, he was a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul. Then again, Harry was a horcrux too… Was that why? Was Tom Riddle literally incapable of killing another being which shared a portion of the same, broken soul?

The diary though, Harry remembered, the diary had tried to kill him, the diary had not hesitated, had not even taken a moment to consider him. Ginny Weasley was, without a doubt, dying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, and he, Harry, had been too. There was no emotion in that shade of Tom Riddle, and if it hadn't been for the miraculous tears of a phoenix, he would have been lost.

But this one, this horcrux, the locket… He had cared, Harry was certain. This version of Riddle, his Riddle, was different. Yes. He was. He had cared. He had, Harry knew it.

_ ‘Your soul is…so beautiful.’ _

He knew that he’d cared, he had… The way he’d smiled at him when he brought him music; the way he wrapped his arms around him and gave him peace…

The Occlumency wards…

Were they still there, even now?

Harry sat up, unfurling himself from the tightly bound, human tangle that he was. The rusty bedsprings creaked in protest against the movement as he shifted his weight. He got to his feet and slowly approached the door, squinting through the darkness.

When he touched his hands to the wooden surface, he felt them. The barest shimmer of the mental barriers, so unobtrusive that they hardly seemed to be present at all. Ghost walls for his haunted mind.

But how?

_ '…I did that for you, Harry… I simply connected the intrinsic pathways of your mind in order to construct Occlumency barriers that are your own…' _

Had Riddle awoken in him some kind of dormant ability to effortlessly make Occlumency shields? Harry focused on them, concentrated on the shimmering walls, and he felt them… An indescribable, gentle tension between his attentive thought and the barriers, could sense it grow stronger, denser… When he backed off they diminished again, back to the unobtrusive walls that they were before.

He could feel it now, that barely-there connection of his mind to the shields, that slightest trickle of his magic going forth into the walls in order to keep them in place. It was  _ easy _ , it was so simple…

Tom had done that for him, and Harry had damned him.

Terrible guilt thrashed in the confinement somewhere deep in his psyche. He pushed it away, shoved it back down. Buried it.

Let it die.

Harry fell back onto the cot, feeling nothing.

He had killed him, and Tom had… He had cared for him, Harry knew he had… He had saved him from the Dark Lord, his older, psychotic counterpart; he had given him the ability to protect himself, to expertly practice Occlumency, a skill he'd never had before…

…He…had cared…

Hadn't he?

Those who knew him always spoke about how charming the Dark Lord had been in his youth, how manipulative and cunning, how he could weave his sultry words into the exact lie you wanted to hear, could string just about anyone along into getting what he wanted. Dumbledore alone had remained un-fooled by his mental games.

Was he, Harry, just another fool?

Had he been tricked by Lord Voldemort…again?

Harry curled back into the smallest form he could fold his body into. He pressed his scarred forehead into his knees and breathed in the familiar scent of the cupboard's dust. His chest, his wounded, aching chest, throbbed with each beat of his heart.

Had it all been a lie?

Had the Tom Riddle in the locket just said what Harry had wanted to hear? Had he meant it when he said that he had a beautiful mind, a beautiful soul? Had he really cared, at all? Or was it all just a charade, an act in the name of self-preservation?

_ 'I would never do anything without your consent.' _

Was that a lie too? Just to gain a little bit more of his heart, of his soul…

Riddle had possessed him at the end. He had taken his body and run, sprinting for the portkey, for freedom…

But Harry could not fault him for that, could he?

_ 'I am nothing like him.' _

Was he, or wasn't he? At the end of it all, the locket had not killed him…and there were a few precious moments where he could have. Tom Riddle could have taken his life and at least tried to take the portkey and run.

He could have… Couldn't he? Harry had already been so weak; his vision had dimmed and the world around him had become silent and dark… How much time had passed when he had been forced against the wall, voiceless and powerless?

Did Tom Riddle really commit an act of selflessness in that moment? Had he truly sacrificed himself in order for Harry to live? Or had he been trying to flee but failed? Had he just not been quick enough before the sword descended, before the ringing sound of clashing metal forever ended his existence?

Harry saw his expression shrouded by the ethereal haze as vividly as though it was a photograph in his mind. So betrayed. So utterly, completely betrayed.

_ What have you done? _

Had Tom Riddle really cared?

…

…Harry had.

Harry had cared very, very much for his nighttime companion. His silhouette in shadows, his angel in darkness. He had…he had even…

Sorrow, grief, loss…and something else, something nameless. They clawed at the surface of their mental cage, monsters in the depths of Harry's mind demanding to be felt. He turned them away, forced them further underground.

Let them die.

…

…Harry had cared for Tom Riddle, there was no denying that… But had Tom Riddle cared for him? The image of his tragic face remained fixated in his mind's eye, and the answer that came to him was the worst possible one.

He did not know.

That was the real tragedy of it all, wasn't it? He did not know if Tom Riddle had really cared for him or not. He could ponder the question from all angles, he could hear the exact thoughts of what any outsider would say on the situation—of course he didn't! This is you-know-who we're talking about, here! He isn't capable of feeling anything for anyone!—and he could fight back with his own argument of what he, Harry, felt was right, of what he so desperately wanted in the bottom of his broken heart to be the truth, and at the end of it all, the answer was the same.

He did not know.

He did not know if any of it had been real or not… and now? 

Now he never would.

* * *

Harry awoke to the sound of shouting.

Muffled, but he could still hear it over the dull ringing in his ears. His body felt lethargic and heavy. It was a familiar sensation, like his bones had been replaced with dense, stiff metal. He blinked open his iron-weighted eyes with a considerable amount of effort, straining to listen.

Angry shouting. Very angry, very vehement… and slowly, the words began to come into focus, clear enough to understand.

"…look like I give a single shit why!?"

Malfoy?

Someone else must have said something, someone who was not yelling, for there was a brief pause, and then—

"No! No,  _ you  _ listen to me, Granger!" 

There was a  _ bang _ , then something made a screeching sound followed quickly by a crash, like a chair being flung against a wall. "This entire fiasco, this entire shit situation, this was all your fault! Yes, it was! Don't you dare deny it! I already know the exact argument you're going to try and pull, so allow me to just make my rebuttal now and save us all some precious time!"

A slamming sound. Harry had never heard Draco Malfoy sound so vicious before.

"You couldn't tell him much because  _ it wasn't safe, _ because he has some fucked up connection with you-know-who. Yes, we all know that, but so  _ fucking  _ what! Snape had Occlumency barriers in place in his mind, and now he's practicing it on his own! This all could have been avoided if you lot weren't all so tight-lipped with him! But I'll go even further. Maybe you argue that there's something about their mental connection I don't know about that makes it especially dangerous if he knows too much. Okay, I'll bite. Let's just say, for conversation's sake, that you aren't a bunch of arseholes for not telling him what the hell has been going on…  _ You could have told me! _ "

The last part was such an angry snarl that even Harry winced from where he was in the bedroom. There was another crashing sound.

"We—"

"No! Shut up, Weasley! Shut your goddamn mouth! You could have told me! You should have! I was the one tasked with keeping an eye on him, after all! And I have been! I noticed him wearing that cursed necklace days ago! If I had known what it was, if I had any idea what kind of stupid objects you were looking for, I could have prevented all of this! But no, I didn't know! And the real reason you lot didn't tell me what was going on? You all can play like it was strategic, like it was for some noble fucking reason, but the truth? It's just because you. Don't. Like. Me."

A taut moment of silence. Harry had pushed himself up into a seated position by now, his jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"That's the real reason and we all know it. You two don't like me, and Snape's not exactly thrilled with me either, and, well, why should you like me? We've all hated each other quite a long time. But this is war. I may have started out on the wrong side, but I'm not anymore. You may think I'm just in this for survival, but I’m capable of being useful, too. And while it should have been thelogical conclusion to make sure that the person who is going to be spending all of his time with our tragic hero actually be informed about what is going on, that didn't happen for no other petty, stupid reason other than the fact that you just don't like me, and because Snape is such a fucking control freak. He deserved exactly what he got. And if you think I'm going to let you just waltz in there and wake him up when you're the one that knocked him out, you can think-a-fucking-gain. I'm sure the very last thing he wants to see when he comes to is either of your sorry faces. So back. The fuck. Off."

Another long stretch of quietness. There were a few measured footsteps, heading in his direction. They paused. Then, in a much softer voice:

"I…I could have saved him from all of that." 

A choking sound that was nearly a sob. 

"…I could have redeemed myself."

More footsteps, and Harry quickly fell onto his side again, pulling the covers up over his head.

The door opened seconds later. It clicked shut afterwards, followed by a softly muttered  _ 'colloportus, _ ' and it took Harry a moment to realize that this meant Draco must have a wand. He had just magically locked the door. But whose wand was it?

Well, Harry mused, there were only the three options, and he had just said Snape deserved what he got, so…

What happened to Snape?

Harry, feeling numb and still freshly stunned at Draco's uncharacteristically passionate speech, decided that… he didn't really care.

He didn’t care about any of it, really. Already he was rapidly recovering from Draco’s raucous monologue, slipping back into a hollow state of mind. Perhaps he should have been touched by how defensive Malfoy had been on his behalf, perhaps he should have felt gracious or moved…

But as he closed his eyes and listened to the unmistakable sounds of Draco sinking onto his bed and beginning to scratch away in his journal again…he didn't feel anything.

He didn't feel anything at all.

* * *

"What did you see?"

Harry wasn't sure how long he’d laid there, listening to the sounds of Draco's quill on paper. He also didn't know how long he had been unconscious before that. Harry hadn't so much as glanced at the clock to see what time it was, nor had he checked the watch on his wrist. He didn't move now, either, as he directed the question to his roommate though he was currently facing the wall. His words came out muffled and hoarse. They were less discernible than he'd thought they'd be.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy didn't understand him. Harry heard the rhythmic sound of his writing come to a stop.

"…Sorry?" he said timidly, like maybe he'd just imagined Harry's stifled voice.

Harry still didn't shift to turn away from the wall. The idea of physically facing him—of sitting up and seeing the truth in his eyes—was simply too much.

"What did you see?" he repeated, a bit more firmly.

The wall clock ticked away quietly, fragmenting the otherwise long stretch of silence. Harry wondered if he would need to clarify. He didn't.

"There was smoke. Kind of a…a mist."

Another pause. Harry waited, certain that he was not finished.

"…And…and you."

A dull, muted feeling of dreadful confirmation. Draco cleared his throat.

"You. Playing the piano. That was what I saw."

Harry’s fists clenched around a handful of blankets, but he otherwise remained still. He wet his lips before asking, after what must have been at least a full minute:

"…Just me?"

When Malfoy answered, it was such a quiet, feeble whisper that Harry almost didn't hear it.

"No."

Another wave of dulled mortification. So that was it, then. If Draco saw it, they all saw it. They saw Tom Riddle in the ethereal haze. They saw him leaning over him, guiding his fingers and bringing him music…

They saw him…  _ They saw him… _

Harry should have felt completely exposed and embarrassed. But he didn't, not really. He could sense those emotions somewhere inside of him, but he was determined to keep them at a distance. It was even easier than it had been the first time around, retreating into himself to become that hollow shell of a person. He nearly smiled at that moment too, because, surprisingly, the thing he thought right then was this:

Lord Voldemort had been right.

Love makes you weak. It makes you stupid. It blinds you, destroys you.

_ '…You're a fool, Harry Potter…and you will lose everything…' _

He was. He was, he was, he was.

How twisted that now, after all that had happened, he found some sort of demented solace in the mindset of his mortal enemy. Voldemort was right all along, and he, Harry had been the stupid one. The fool.

But never again.

The wound on his chest throbbed with a dull pain, but Harry barely noticed it. He just laid there for a long time, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing. Eventually, Draco resumed his writing.

* * *

It was getting dark by the time that Harry finally decided that it was time to get up.

As much as he did not want to, he needed to face the others. While he was no longer burning with wild, fiery curiosity about what was really going on, he did still want to know. He had to know. He had a prophecy to fulfill, after all… Or did he?

Was he even remotely important to anyone at all anymore?

Probably not. But there was only one way to find out.

Harry abruptly stood, despite the agonizing protest of his sore muscles and freshly injured chest. A motion which shocked the hell out of Malfoy, who appeared to be half-asleep on the bed next to him. The diary was open flat on his stomach, his quill held loosely in his hand like he'd dozed off mid-sentence. The moment Harry stirred he started violently, sending the little black book falling to the floor.

Harry felt slightly nauseous at the sight of the diary, even still.

_ Tom… _

No, stop it.

"Y-you're—" Malfoy stuttered, flustered as he too got to his feet and scooped up the journal. "You're a—"

"I need to talk to them," Harry said, his voice still quite raw. "I don't really want to, but I need to." And without waiting for any kind of response, he reached for the door.

"Do you mind?"

"Oh. Oh! Right.  _ Alohomora _ ." Draco pointed the wand and Harry saw that he had been correct, it was Snape's. The lock clicked open.

"Thanks."

Down the hall he went.

He wasn't sure why he had thought they would be in the kitchen, but that is where his feet had

taken him, and that was where they were. Hermione and Ron, who now looked like their normal selves and were dressed in their regular clothes, were sitting across from each other in silence as though they had been waiting for him. Maybe they had been.

Harry wondered what they thought of him, of what they would say. They’d had all day to dwell on it, after all, to let the shock settle in. To critically analyze the how, what, and why of the situation.

Would they think him completely naïve and childish? Would they reprimand him for being so stupid, so reckless—so easily tricked, again?

Would they be disgusted by him?

…Did he care, if they were?

Hermione jumped up the moment he walked in. Ron made a kind of warning, hissing noise at the action, and she glanced around at him before lowering herself back down, nervously. They kept their gazes downcast as Malfoy entered the room behind Harry. It didn't escape his notice that Draco kept his temporarily acquired wand raised towards the others, his stance fierce and bizarrely protective.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Harry remained standing, looking from Ron to Hermione, then back to Ron again.

"How many are there?"

Ron made eye contact with him for the first time, then. The guilt and pain in those blue irises was profound.

Harry didn't feel anything.

"How many what?" he croaked.

"Horcruxes." Harry noticed Hermione twitch involuntarily in his peripheral vision, but he didn't take his eyes off Ron's. "That's what you're hunting, isn't it? Horcruxes. Fragments of you-know-who's soul. Killing them off, piece by piece, so that he can die. That's what the locket was. That's what the diary was, and whatever cup you got from Gringotts. Tell me then. How many are there? Do you know what they all are? Where they are?"

_ Do you know that I'm one of them? _

Neither of them asked how he knew what a horcrux was.

"I…six total, we think," Ron said hoarsely. Hermione's neck snapped in his direction. "And—"

"Ron, we shouldn't—"

"No,  _ you  _ shouldn't, Hermione," Ron snarled back at her, and in all their years of bickering and fighting, Harry had never heard Ron sound this genuinely malevolent towards her. He got to his feet. "I'm done, I'm done with this. Because you know what?" He pointed towards Draco, who instantly lifted his wand higher on pure instinct. “As much as it pains me to say it, Malfoy was right. I was right. I thought we should be telling him everything from the start, but I listened to you, I listened to Snape—I kept my head down and went along with it because it was the smart,  _ safe _ thing to do—" The sarcastic drawl was so thick here that it rivaled that of Malfoy’s tone—

"—but not anymore."

He turned to Harry, looking both fierce and guilt-ridden.

"Six," he reaffirmed. "And we've already destroyed four. And—"

"Wait, wait!" Hermione squeaked, also standing. Her hands were caught up in her mass of curly, frizzy hair. "I just, I don't think—I'm sorry, but—"

"It's okay," Harry said hollowly before Ron or Draco could verbally attack her. 

"You can tell me now. I can practice Occlumency."

Ron gestured at him pointedly. "See? There you go. So—"

"You can?" Hermione interrupted, looking apprehensive. Harry nodded.

"It's just… I mean…" She looked to the door and back, and it was obvious that the reason she was so conflicted was because Snape was not present to be their guiding, adult expert.

It was just a bunch of delinquent teenagers against the world.

"I just… Okay, we'll tell you, we'll tell you everything if—do you mind if I—" She looked extremely nervous before finally spitting it out, saying,  "Can I just check, first? To make sure?"

Harry stared at her, confused. "Check?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes shimmering with barely-contained tears.

"Really, Hermione?" Ron spat viciously. "Really? You have to personally prod at his mind before you feel justified? You can't just take his word for it? Your best friend?"

Hermione quickly wiped a wayward tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "It's got n-nothing to do with trust or friendship, Ronald!" she shouted heatedly, though her voice cracked more than once. "It's about making sure that we're safe, that we're not putting everyone in d-danger—that we're not—"

"You want to try using Legilimency on me?" Harry interrupted, comprehension finally dawning on him. Hermione nodded again. Ron scowled.

"Yes," she confirmed quietly. "J-just to see if you are really effective at blocking me out. Then… then I would feel much better about telling you everything we know. And we will."

Maybe Harry should have felt offended. He didn't. To Hermione's surprise, he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Okay."

Her teary eyes widened. "O…okay?" she questioned, a bit shocked at how easily he'd conceded.

"Sure." Harry put his hands out widely on either side of him as if to make himself an easier target. "Knock yourself out."

Ron and Malfoy both made disapproving noises, but Hermione hurriedly rubbed at her runny nose before retracting her wand.

"Th-thank you," she stammered. Harry didn't respond. She hesitated for a moment with her wand pointed at his chest, as if reconsidering… but then her emotional face suddenly became flat and clinical,.

_ "Legilimens." _

The Imperius curse cast by Hermione Granger was nothing like the same spell being cast by Severus Snape.

Perhaps each witch and wizard had their own, distinctive style when it came to the mind arts, Harry mused, because this plunge into his psyche was a vastly different experience than it had ever been before. When it was Snape who had been attempting to break into his thoughts, it was something akin to an army barraging your home, marching onto the porch and banging on the door—a squad of lethal and dangerous soldiers shouting, 'Surrender! Come out with your hands up!', and when you failed to comply, would not hesitate to brutally knock the door down and force their way in. A very effective attack, but an organized one at least. Snape got exactly what he was looking for and disturbed as little else as possible. 

When  _ Lord Voldemort  _ had invaded his mind… Well, Harry thought with a morbid sense of humor, he was like the big, bad wolf storming up to your doorstep, the monster who would huff and puff and blow your whole damn house apart—a tornado of power that would tear your walls violently into shreds, and when they were gone he would pick among the wreckage like some kind of manic, demonic vulture to find exactly what memory or thought he'd been looking for,  only to disappear again quite abruptly, leaving nothing but wreckage in his wake…and not exactly caring about the damage he'd done to your mind afterward.

But Hermione… Hermione was an altogether different matter. She was not aggressive in the slightest. No, she was like a falsely friendly, door-to-door salesperson, almost trying to pass as someone who was supposed to be there… 'Oh hello, I was only checking if you were home, just wanted to see if you had a moment…?' If you were ignorant enough you'd just let them in, and before you knew it that innocent-looking person would be in your home with a gun to your head, stealing your valuables while you were left wondering, 'Just how the hell did this happen'?

While it was nowhere near as outwardly powerful at Snape’s or Voldemort’s approach, Harry thought, it was just as dangerous in its own way.

But he, Harry, was not ignorant. Seeing as he was a relatively emotionless shell already, it was easy to put forth a bit of effort into strengthening the already-there barriers… and Hermione could not get it. A memory never even started to form. There was nothing there.

Nothing.

A few moments later she pulled away. The kitchen swirled back into place around them. Hermione looked thunderstruck.

"Well?" Ron and Draco both asked. Hermione's eyes never left Harry's when she answered, quite incredulously, "I couldn't see anything. Nothing, nothing at all, it was…it was perfect, Evans…"

Harry regarded her with a cool look of indifference.

"Great. Moving on, then," Ron said bitterly, snapping Hermione out of her shell-shocked stare. Harry turned to face him. There was a pregnant pause before he spoke.

"That thing… The locket… It was one of the horcruxes." His friend's face twisted in guilt. He took a somewhat hesitant step towards Harry, and it looked like that action alone caused him pain.

"I-I'm so sorry—"

"Don't," Harry said numbly. Because he  _ was  _ numb, and he didn't want to hear their apologies. Those buried emotions writhed somewhere deep below in his psyche, but they could not reach him.

Ron noticed.

"No," he said, sounding more grief-stricken now than Harry ever heard him. "No, no, no, no—not you, not you too!" Suddenly he was inches away, his hands on Harry's shoulders, looking pleadingly into his mask-like face. Harry blinked back at him blankly, a bit taken aback.

"Not you too, god damn it—that look, that empty look— that's exactly what happened to Ginny afterward, sometimes I see it even still—I won't let that bastard—he can't have done that to you too—"

Pain, loss, anger…bitterness? They all clawed at the back of Harry’s throat, demanding recognition. Harry refused, choking them back.

"I'm fine," he said in a broken voice that was definitely not fine.

Something cracked in Ron. He turned away and slammed his fists down on the kitchen table, his pale face instantly red in fury. "I'll kill him!" he roared, causing all three of the others to jump. "I will  _ fucking kill him!  _ That manipulative—that bastard—first my sister, and now—"

He looked back up at Harry, suddenly pleading again. "I don't know what he said to you, Evans, how he disguised himself into making you see him as something that he wasn't, but—whatever he said, whatever he told you—it wasn't real! It wasn't real! He's a psychopath, and everything he said was a manipulative lie, and-and he was killing you—"

Something cracked in Harry then, too.

"Why couldn't I fight off Snape's Imperius curse?" he muttered as he looked up vacantly at the ceiling towards something that was not there, speaking more to himself than anyone else.

"What?" Ron gasped, confusion cutting across his otherwise desperate expression.

"I'm supposed to be good at that," Harry continued in a voice completely void of emotion. "It was one of the only things I could actually do right. But I couldn't do it then. I couldn't fight it off."

There was a beat of silence, and when the next words came out, they weren't his, couldn't have been his, they were someone else's—they were the words of someone much weaker and feebler, someone who would actually be so foolish as to give in to that overwhelming sense of total loss.

"I killed him."

A confession.

"No!" Ron roared, grabbing his shoulders again, and he was so blurry, so out of focus, and Harry —he wasn't crying, he  _ wasn't— _

"First of all, you did throw off Snape's Imperius curse, you damned, stubborn prat! He had to cast it twice, didn't you hear him? And it was a miracle that you were even sitting up straight on your own, let own fighting off powerful, dark curses! Because  _ he was killing you! _ " Harry clamped his eyes shut, shaking his head. He didn't want to hear this, he didn't want to—

"Yes! You didn't see it, you couldn't see yourself like we could—you were hardly breathing, you were so pale—you were dying! He was sucking the life out of you, he was going to leave you for dead, just like Ginny! He used you, Evans, he used you—please look at me!"

Harry might not have done it if he hadn't sounded so, so heartbroken. Begrudgingly, after a long pause, he opened his eyes.

Ron was suddenly much calmer. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"No matter what he said to you, that was the same person that killed your parents," he said flatly. "That was the same man who killed Cedric Diggory in the graveyard. That was the same person who tricked us into going to the Department of Mysteries, whose followers killed Sirius and MadEye. The same person who kidnapped you and put you to sleep for an entire year. He was the same monster. Whatever he said to you was a lie. Whatever he did was a trick; a deceitful, terrible, cruel, manipulative trick. He does not know how to love. He only knows hate."

He stared at Harry resolutely, his blue eyes burning with intensity, refusing to look away and, in turn, refusing to let Harry just look away, either.

…He  _ wanted  _ to look away.

Harry wanted to just shut his eyes and not acknowledge it, but Ron's hands on his shoulders were like anchors, and he wasn't letting go.

The seconds ticked by. Finally, in a defeated, hoarse voice, Harry caved, choking out the words:

"I know."

Then, before he could so much as blink, Ron pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. The motion caused the wound on Harry’s chest to throb painfully at the contact, but he didn't seem to notice Harry's sharp gasp. Ron was murmuring the words, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," into his shoulder and Harry hated him in that moment, hated him because he was making him deal with this horrible thing that he did not want to deal with.

As Ron continued to mutter apologies into his robes, Harry wondered if maybe this situation was somehow, in a different way, even worse for him. Ron, who'd had to deal with the aftermath of his little sister going through this same situation years ago… To feel so guilty and helpless… and, oh God, Ginny…

How in the world had Ginny recovered as well as she had? He, Harry, had only had the locket for… what, a week or so? But she'd had the diary for  _ months… _

She'd been possessed so many times; she'd killed roosters and gone down into the Chamber of Secrets and set the basilisk on students and then she'd so very nearly died herself…

And what had they done afterward? Given her a cup of cocoa, Harry some house points, and said, 'Ah, very well. You were lucky this time, Miss Weasley. Good thing Mr. Potter here saved you. But I'm sure that after a nice mug of something warm and sweet you'll feel good as new in the morning, right as rain. Being mind-raped by a Dark Lord for several months won't affect you that much—probably—but anyway, off to bed with you…'

They had touched on it only once after that…and it had been brief. What was it that Harry had said again? That he'd  _ forgotten? _

_ ' Lucky you.' _

If he ever saw Ginny Weasley again, Harry decided, he owed her an astronomical apology.

Ron… was crushing him. Both emotionally and physically. Harry needed it to stop before he fell apart completely. He tentatively put his hands on Ron’s shoulders, prying him away as gently as he could. "Ron," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm… I'm okay. I just…I didn't know—but it's fine. I'm fine." Ron looked down at him in disbelief. "I only had that thing for a week or something, after all, and I—I get it…" He smiled thinly. His charade of being only slightly affected felt weak even to him, and he knew they all knew it was a lie.

"W-we're sorry…"

Hermione's voice was a high-pitched whimper. Harry almost started; he had quite forgotten that both she and Draco were still present.

"Stop it," Harry said tersely. There was something stirring within him that might have been close to anger, then, if he allowed himself to feel anything at all. He hated the fact that they were both teary-eyed right now. Where did they get off, being weak like this? He didn't want their weakness. He didn't need their pity.

No, he wanted answers.

"You've gotten rid of four, you said."

Ron nodded, trying miserably to compose himself. "Yeah," He said, dragging his hands slowly down the sides of his face. "And we know what the other two are. At least, we're pretty damn certain."

Harry waited expectantly. "He made them out of these really valuable objects," Ron explained, looking worn. He started pacing. "Wanted to use only rare, powerfully magic items. He made six total, we think, because he was into this insane idea of having seven total soul pieces. So…"

He held out a hand and began ticking them away with his fingers. "The diary. His first one, which you destroyed. Then, there was a ring, one that used to belong to Salazar Slytherin himself. Dumbledore destroyed that one. Then the goblet, which Hermione destroyed. And now…"

He swallowed thickly, avoiding Harry's gaze for a moment. "The locket… That was—that one was me."

It was obvious that he was trying valiantly to not sound guilty as he said it, that he had done the right thing…and Harry knew that he thought that he had, hadn't he? But there was still a dull, muted sensation of betrayal somewhere deep within him at his words.

Ron had been the one to wield the sword, after all…

"Why the sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked.

"Ah…because, well, horcruxes…" Ron started, looking uncomfortable. "They… they're really, really hard to get rid of. They—the vessels which contain the soul fragments—have to be destroyed beyond magical repair, and only a few things can do that. Basilisk venom is one of them. So when you stabbed the diary with that fang, it was actually one of the only things that would have worked."

"And when you killed the basilisk with the sword," Hermione picked up, "well, the sword of Gryffindor is a goblin made artifact, and goblin made items like that can sort of absorb the properties of other magical substances they come into contact with in order to become stronger. So it became impregnated with basilisk venom when you killed that monster down in the Chamber."

Harry's thoughts whirled as he tried to process all of this information. The sword of Gryffindor could now destroy horcruxes, but otherwise they were very difficult to kill…

Harry wondered, he wondered…

Did this all apply… to  _ him? _

He nodded, not saying anything.

Ron cleared his throat. "Well, so, now, these last two… We're positive about one of them, at least. This diadem of Ravenclaw's… He had a thing about collecting founder's items and turning them into horcruxes."

Harry nodded like that made perfect sense to him. Hermione spoke next.

"The diadem was especially difficult, it took me forever to figure out how he could have found an artifact that has been missing for so long," she said, a bit of her usual, crisp tone seeping into her voice. "Which is why we went to Albania, actually. Turns out that the Ravenclaw House ghost, the Grey Lady—she was Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter, did you know? It took me a long time to come to that conclusion; luckily I managed it while we were still at Hogwarts so I could ask her. I  _ finally  _ got her to confess what had become of the allegedly lost diadem. Her mother made it. It supposedly gives the person who wears it great wisdom. So her daughter, the Grey Lady, she stole it, and, well, long story short, it wound up in Albania… Which is where you-know-who eventually found it, which is why we thought maybe he would keep it hidden there after he'd turned it into a horcrux…"

She sighed.

"Yeah, well, that was a total waste," Ron muttered. He scratched at his arm involuntarily, like the mere mention of Albania irritated the mostly-healed mosquito bites on his arm. "We're almost positive it's in Hogwarts now."

Harry blinked. "Hogwarts?"

"Yeah," he said, still absent-mindedly rubbing at his forearm. "There was a chance when he could have hidden it in the castle after he'd found it in Albania. Did you know that you-know-who applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position years ago?"

Harry cocked his head to the side, momentarily curious and distracted. "He did?"

"Yep," Ron answered, smirking slightly. "He had an interview with Dumbledore that didn't exactly go very well. Needless to say, he was rejected… But we think he took that opportunity to stash the diadem in the school. He always hides his horcruxes in meaningful, powerful places, and keeping one in Hogwarts would have really appealed to him."

"Where specifically do you think he'd put it?" Harry did his best to keep his voice steady, because the longer this conversation went on, the more certain he was that they truly, honestly...

"Well, I said the Chamber of Secrets—" Ron answered, but then Hermione cut in.

"Which  _ would  _ make a lot of sense, obviously, but Professor Snape and I agree, we don't think he would be so stupid as to go there after he'd just spoken to Dumbledore, he wouldn't want to risk going anywhere near the Chamber if there was even a chance that the Headmaster could be following him. He wouldn't want to risk someone like Dumbledore finding out where the entrance was."

"So where do you think, then?" Malfoy spoke now. He had finally lowered his wand, but he still held it tightly in one hand with his arms crossed.

"The Room of Requirement," Ron responded, sounding very vexed. "And we may have gotten the chance to find it while we were still at Hogwarts too, but it was just the damndest thing because we could never get in.  _ Now  _ we know it was because  _ somebody else _ was spending all their time in there last year…"

His words trailed off ominously, venomous. He glared at Draco, an incensed glower which was returned in like. Harry observed the interaction with more than moderate confusion.

"It doesn't matter now," Hermione intervened, attempting to derail whatever heated argument was about to explode. "What's done is done. We do believe that's where it is though, and breaking into Hogwarts now… Well..."

She didn't need to finish her statement. They all knew it—breaking into Hogwarts was going to be even more perilous than breaking into Gringotts had been.

"...We're working on it," she finished morosely.

A few moments of silence, and then Ron cleared his throat.

"This last one," he muttered. "Well, we're not one hundred percent certain, but… It's especially tricky, because… it's alive."

Harry's entire numb world came to a shuddering halt—

"We're pretty sure it's his snake."

—and then it promptly began moving again.

_ They really didn't know. _

"His snake?" he repeated, and apparently his momentary thrill of terror had gone unnoticed because Ron just shrugged miserably.

"Yeah. His horrible atrocity of a pet. We think he put a piece of his soul in another living thing, which is just mad, isn't it?"

Harry struggled to suppress a laugh that probably would have sounded quite mad.

"Nagini is a horcrux…" he murmured in awe. He recalled that out of body experience, that fateful day where he had been called by name and unwittingly summoned by Lord Voldemort himself… How possessing the snake had been so easy… There was no pain, no horrible agony like there had been with Trelawney… As a matter of fact, he had felt rather comfortable in her snake's body; it had almost felt natural…

"You're right," he said, looking at the perplexed faces of Ron and Hermione. "I'm sure of it. She's got to be."

They looked at each other nervously.

"Well that's all just wonderful, isn't it?" Draco sneered, drawing their attention to him. "So the Dark Lord is  _ literally  _ immortal until these other horcruxes are out of the picture. One is practically untouchable in Hogwarts and the other is that goddamn, foul snake which he pretty much always keeps near him. How the hell do you plan on killing it?"

No one said anything. Malfoy scoffed.

"Great," he muttered.

Harry's mind was positively buzzing. They didn't know he was a human horcrux, they didn't know… Should he tell them? He wasn't sure, but—

_ But Snape knew!  _ He, Harry, had been the one to tell him! He'd been in Trelawney's horrible body and he'd told him to his face! The Potions Master obviously hadn't divulged this information to Ron or Hermione. Harry was certain they weren't lying to him, because no one, not even Hermione, was this good at acting. But… but why?

Just what the hell was Severus Snape playing at?

And…what did he plan on doing to him, in the end? Did he have some insane, master plan up his sleeve? Harry was certain that his ex-professor did not know that Harry himself knew that he was a horcrux…

Could his tragedy of a life possibly get more complicated?

Harry glanced at the wand in Draco's hand. "What happened to Snape?"

Malfoy smirked, making Harry instantly apprehensive. " _ You _ happened to Snape," he answered, his silver eyes gleaming.

"I… Come again?"

Draco laughed, and it was a sinister yet delighted sound. "Granger hit you with a stunner when you flung those constraining spells off, but not quite quick enough. You went down, but you took Snape down with you. There was this crazy bolt of lightning, and it hit him right in the face." His smile widened.

"It was  _ wicked _ ."

"It was not wicked!" Hermione huffed. "It was really, really frightening. You could have killed him!"

Harry didn't exactly feel remorseful. “ I conjured up lightning again?" he asked, looking to Ron for confirmation.

He nodded, failing to suppress a sly grin of his own. "…It  _ was  _ relatively wicked."

"It was not!" Hermione actually stamped her foot in annoyance. "You seriously injured him, Evans! I managed to fix most of the major bruising that happened, but he'll have to heal himself properly once he finally wakes up. He's been out all day, and probably will be all night, I imagine. You burned a bunch of his hair off, too."

Malfoy laughed gleefully. "Yeah, you did. Maybe he'll have a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead now too."

Harry smirked despite himself. Hermione just huffed, giving up on trying to convince any of them that it was not a laughing matter.

"I don't even remember doing that," Harry said dazedly, scratching the back of his head.

"But… We haven't even told you everything yet."

Ron sounded suddenly very serious and… excited? Hermione took one look at his face and groaned.

"Not this again, Ron."

"Yes," he said vehemently. "Yes, because I think I'm right!"

Hermione sat, sighing as she buried her face in her hands. Ron gazed at Harry with eyes that were ablaze with passion.

"Do you still have your invisibility cloak?" he asked. Harry nodded, completely taken aback by that question. Ron smiled widely.

"Excellent. Because I think that you, Evans, are destined to be…" He paused dramatically, putting a hand on his shoulder as he said, 

"…The Master of Death."

Harry stared.

"The what?" he and Malfoy balked at the same time. 

"Hear me out," Ron said, taking a step back and beginning to pace again. "So, Dumbledore left us with some stuff when he died," he began, motioning towards Hermione and himself. "He left me with this useless contraption—I dunno why, it swallows lights, I'll show it to you later if you want—but he left Hermione with this book."

He gestured at Hermione then, who reluctantly withdrew her beaded bag. He made to reach for it, but she slapped his hand away, frowning. "Let me get it, if you must—I have things in order now, finally—" She reached her arm down impossibly far into the bag, digging around for a moment before she finally pulled out a massive, very old-looking tome.

Ron grabbed it at once, flipping it open to a page that had a marker sticking out of it.

"Here. This story—"

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" Malfoy interrupted, his brows arched. "Why would Dumbledore leave you a book with a bunch of children's stories?"

"I'm getting there," Ron snapped impatiently. He looked back at Harry, shoving the book under his nose. Malfoy peered over his shoulder. "This is  _ The Tale of the Three Brothers. _ And—"

"I know that symbol!" Harry shouted, cutting Ron off again mid-sentence. He pointed down at the crudely drawn icon above the title. A circle within a triangle, with a line down the middle…

Hermione's head snapped up. "You do?"

"Yeah. That's Grindelwald's symbol, isn't it?"

She blinked up at him, clearly surprised. "Yes. How did you know that?"

"I read about it in a book," Harry said simply. Hermione continued to look stricken. "It does happen, sometimes. Me, reading," he muttered before looking back to Ron.

His friend's smile was getting wider by the second. "Yeah, it was Grindelwald's symbol. But he stole it from this story because it's a symbol of the Deathly Hallows."

He said this as though it was deeply impressive. Harry and Malfoy continued to look at him inquiringly.

"Oh, it's just a story, Ron—"

"The Deathly Hallows are three magical artifacts that, legend has it, when united, makes the wielder the Master of Death," Ron went on loudly, speaking as though Hermione had not spoken at all. He snapped the giant book shut. "Basically, it's the story of three brothers, three wizards. They went to cross a bridge one day at twilight—"

"I thought it was midnight," Malfoy interrupted. Ron glared at him. "What?" he said, annoyed. "That's how my mum always told it to me."

"Well then you can tell your mum that she's got it wrong—my mum too, actually, because she always—oh, it doesn't matter!" Ron shook his head, looking frazzled. "Midnight, twilight, Christmas morning—whenever—three brothers came across a river at some point, and the water was really turbulent, so, you know, since they're wizards, they conjure up a bridge, in order to pass safely. Then Death shows up—"

"Death shows up?" Harry asked, bemused by Ron's less than great storytelling expertise.

"Yeah, you know, Death. This is a fairy tale—sort of—just bear with me." He waved the giant book around, nearly hitting Malfoy in the face with it. "Death shows up, and he's all pissy because he feels like he was just cheated out of three perfectly good lives when they made that bridge. But he's a tricky bastard. Instead of being angry, he's all manipulative and suave and cunning and deceptive (his voice became exceptionally bitter here, and Harry wondered if he wasn't thinking of someone else), and he says, 'Oh, very clever, you three brothers, you. Let me reward you all for your vast intelligence. Ask for anything you want, and I'll give it to you.'"

Ron set the giant book down on the table, leaving it open on its spine. "The first brother wants glory and power. He asks for a wand that will be the most powerful wand in all of existence. Death grins all wickedly, snaps off a twig from a nearby elder tree, and lo and behold, the Deathstick is born. The Elder Wand. Yes," he paused, pointing at a stunned-looking Malfoy. "The Elder Wand. But let me finish. So, Death hands the wand over to brother number one, who goes on his merry way.

“But he's a bit of an idiot, this guy. He goes around boasting about how powerful his wand is, how he won it from Death, and some other greedy bastard kills him in his sleep and takes it. Thus, Death gets the first life which he felt was his to begin with. Then the guy who stole it does the same thing, bragging and what not, and he gets killed, and the wand gets stolen again, and so on and so on. Supposedly it was lost to time, until, eventually, it's thought to only be a myth."

"Until Grindelwald found it."

Harry had figured it out before Ron got there. He nodded deeply, but asked, "How—?"

"Snape told us a bit about it," Harry explained. "He said Dumbledore had it, which is why Malfoy was in danger because he disarmed Dumbledore… So the Headmaster had to have won it from someone, and this is Grindelwald's symbol, so I just guessed…"

Ron shot Hermione a look that bordered on gloating. "See? Everything is connected!" he shouted jubilantly, gesturing back and forth between Malfoy and Harry like they had just made some kind of great argument for him.

"But what—?"

"Let me finish the stupid story first," Ron said, interrupting Malfoy, who was tapping Snape's wand against his arm impatiently. "But we are all in agreement that the Elder Wand is real, yeah? This giant thing that at one point everyone thought was  _ totally  _ made up? Yes?" He was practically leering at Hermione when she finally, begrudgingly nodded.

"But—" she started. Ron ignored her.

"So the second brother," he continued with gusto, "poor bloke, he's upset with Death already because the love of his life died some time ago. So he asks Death for a stone that will bring the dead back to life. Death smiles, picks up some little pebble or something, and hands it to the second brother. The Resurrection Stone."

Harry couldn't help but be caught up by Ron's tangible excitement. "Is… is  _ that  _ a real thing?" he breathed, hardly daring to allow the concept of such an object existing to enter his thoughts.

A stone that could bring the dead back to life…

His parents… _ Sirius… _

And maybe—his heart skipped a beat—maybe—

Hermione stood, noting the look on Harry's face and immediately becoming worried. "It's not real, no one has ever—"

"Silence!" Ron boomed in what Harry assumed was supposed to be an imitation of Snape. Unlike Hermione, he needed to work on his acting skills. "So the second brother takes the stone and goes. He gets home and twirls it around three times—guess that's how it works—and the love of his life shows up. But she's only like… half-real."

Harry's shoulders slumped. "Half-real?” he said. “But…she could talk, and…and interact with him?"

"Yeah, but she's all depressed because she's not quite alive again. She doesn't belong in the living world, not really. So her depression ends up getting to him, and the second brother eventually kills himself in order to be with his beloved. Thus, Death claims the second brother's life for his own."

A tremor of sadness stirred in the depths of Harry's mind. He swallowed thickly, willing it away.

"So we have the wand," Ron said, tracing the line on the symbol in the book. "The stone," he traced the circle, "…and the third Hallow…"

He paused theatrically again. Malfoy was tapping Snape's wand almost violently against his arm he was so edgy, but Harry had never heard the story, and so he waited patiently.

"The third brother doesn't want to embarrass Death even further like the other two. He's smart. So he asks for a cloak that will hide him from Death himself. Very begrudgingly, Death takes off his own Cloak of Invisibility and hands it over to brother number three."

"Death had an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Well sure," Ron answered. "How else would he sneak up on people all the time? So Death hands it over and sighs, watching the last wizard go, hating that he won't be able to find him. The third brother leaves with the cloak on him, knowing that, until he is ready, Death will never touch him."

_ Death will never touch you. _

Harry felt the blood drain from his face at the unexpected sound of Lord Voldemort's icy voice in his mind. The Invisibility Cloak… His Invisibility Cloak on that crystal casket, in that world of—

But nobody noticed his fleeting expression of terror. Draco was looking at Ron, who was pacing again, and Hermione had her eyes closed, rubbing her temples like Ron's speech was giving her a migraine. "The last brother, then, lives his life to the fullest, and it's not until he is old and ready to die that he takes off the cloak, passing it along to his son, and Death finally comes to greet him. They then enter into the next life together like they're old friends. Or… something. The point is, he died on his own terms, unlike the other two idiots."

"The second one died on his own terms," Malfoy disagreed, frowning. Ron ignored him with an annoyed wave of his hand.

"Doesn't matter," he said quickly. He pointed at Harry, who had managed to recover from his short but intense tremor of fear. "The Invisibility Cloak. I think it's real. I think it's  _ your  _ Invisibility Cloak."

"Uh… really?" Harry raised an eyebrow at him dubiously. "It's just a cloak, Ron…"

Hermione looked up. "That's what I was saying," she started, looking a bit relieved, but Ron cut her off again.

"I've seen other invisibility cloaks before, and even the best, most expensive ones wear out after a while. His is perfect, and it's been in his family for who even knows how long, and—"

He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, gripping him tightly. "I think you're related to the brothers in this story, and the cloak is real, it's all real. You're already the rightful owner of the cloak, and if we can just get the other two, if you become master of all three of them… I think that's your  _ destiny _ !" he finished grandly.

Harry laughed. "Why in the world do you think that? Where did you even come up with all of this?"

"I didn't!" Ron answered loudly, but he was smiling like this was good news. "I didn't—the Lovegoods did!"

Harry blinked numbly before breathed the name, "Luna…"

"Yes! Luna, and her father, Xenophilius," Ron said, nodding. "Remember when I said they were at the wedding? Well, so was  _ Viktor Krum _ ."

He muttered the name of the international Quidditch player he had once worshipped like it was a dirty slur.

"Krum was there?" Harry asked. Ron nodded, glowering.

"Yeah, Fleur invited him. But she shouldn't have, because he nearly made a scene, storming up to the poor Lovegoods just because Xenophilius was wearing a necklace with this symbol on it—"

"Because it's Grindelwald's symbol!" Hermione interjected defensively. "Of course he took offense to it, Grindelwald went to his school and caused his country a lot of pain and turmoil, and—"

"Well,  _ Vikky  _ was an idiot, wasn't he, because that's not why Mr. Lovegood was wearing it at all," Ron scoffed. "He was wrong, and so are you."

"You're just mad because he kept flirting with me and Ginny all night," Hermione responded coolly.

"That is—that's completely off topic!" Ron shouted, though his ears instantly turned red. He took a deep breath before looking back at Harry. Malfoy was leering, clearly enjoying all the drama.

"So…" Ron began again, forcing himself to sound calm. "Krum makes a fool of himself, almost starting a fight with Luna's father, but Hermione and I intervened—she distracted the stupid oaf with her wily charms (Hermione huffed, loudly), while I stayed with the Lovegoods…and we had a very interesting chat."

He glared at Hermione again. "Which  _ you  _ missed completely. But everything they said made total sense, even if they are a bit…eccentric." He turned back to Harry and Draco. "They told me all about that symbol, and the hallows, and the story… and then Luna gave me that sunflower…"

Harry's hand flew to his chest, the aching, fresh wound over his heart burning. At that moment, he knew he believed. Harry didn't even understand it all yet, but if what Ron was saying was what Luna believed in, then he did too.

"But… Why do you think it's supposed to be me?" he asked slowly.

"Because of the prophecy!" Ron yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. "The prophecy that said you're the one meant to off you-know-who, that you're the Chosen One! Who else could become the Master of Death? How else does an immortal man die, if not by the hands of the rightful owner of the Deathly Hallows? And, I mean, I think that's why he couldn't kill you, right? When he kidnapped you he couldn't kill you, though he obviously tried that first, right? But you're destined, it didn't work, the death spell probably would've just bounced off you again, just like it did the first time, and so he put you to sleep, locked you up—made everyone think you were dead because he literally couldn't do it! Because you are the future Master of Death!"

Harry stared. It was pretty concrete then that Ron had already thought about this so much that it was nothing short of fact for him.

He…he thought Voldemort just…  _ couldn't  _ kill him…

Harry liked Ron's story much better than the truth.

Hermione was biting her lip, looking back and forth between Harry and Ron with great conflict simmering in her eyes. 

"But  _ I'm  _ the current Master of the Elder Wand," Draco muttered in a cool voice. Ron looked at him and grinned, glad that Malfoy too seemed to be giving his theory a chance.

"Yes. And I've been saying for a while now, ever since you and Evans have both been here, that we should go dig up your wand from your fake grave and bring it over so that Evans can best you properly, making him the Master of the Elder Wand, but no, no, no, we had to go to  _ Albania… _ " He gave Hermione a fleeting, withering look. "But if we could still get it, then—"

"Then we just need the stone…"

Harry's voice was low and contemplative.

"Yes!" Ron thundered, looking joyous that Harry might really be coming around now. Yet then he deflated almost just as suddenly, his arms lowering to his sides.

"Yes… the stone," he said slowly. "That's the real problem. We have no idea where that could be… Or even what it looks like, truth be told."

Though he said nothing, Harry thought… he  _ did  _ have an idea of where it might be...

"It's not real, Ron," Hermione sighed. "The stone isn't real. There's no record of it, none, I've looked and looked, I spent hours researching it—really, I did—but… There's nothing. It's not real."

She did look legitimately crestfallen. There was a long moment of silence following her words as everyone was momentarily lost in their own thoughts. Harry's mind was absolutely racing with the possibilities of everything he'd just learned.

"But the Elder Wand is real," Ron finally said in a decisive voice. "We all know that."

"Yes, well, so what?" Hermione said dejectedly. "Malfoy is the current Master of it, and—"

But Harry was not so sure.

"Draco," he said suddenly. "Do you mind terribly if I steal these two for a few minutes? I need to show them something in private."

Malfoy, surprisingly, looked not angry at this request, but… hurt. "Trust me when I say that it is something that I am purposefully not sharing with you not because I do not trust you, but because I am sparing you. It is something you will not want to see." He kept his words ominously emotionless. Green eyes flashed up to silvery gray, and there was a transitory moment of kinship and understanding.

"Trust me, Draco."

Maybe it was because he had switched to calling him only by his first name, and it was sincere and legitimate; maybe it was just the total honesty in his voice… but Draco, astoundingly, did not argue. He just nodded, his face smooth and emotionless.

"I'll be in the study," he said simply.

Harry's lips pulled up into a small but affectionate smile. "Thank you."

Draco left without another word. Hermione and Ron watched him go with their jaws hanging open, but Harry couldn't be bothered by their shock.

"Come on," he said, motioning for them to follow. "I need to show you something in the pensive."

\--

Moments later, and the three were gathered in the drawing room. Hermione and Ron both looked apprehensive, though the latter was still radiating excitement. Harry extended a hand toward him.

"Mind if I borrow your wand for a moment?" he asked. "To extract this memory that I want you to see…"

Ron complied without question. Harry held the wooden tool in his hand and nearly sighed—he had gone so long without a wand… While this one felt friendly enough, it was nothing like how his own had felt. It was gentle, but he could tell, without really knowing how he could tell… This wand was not loyal to him.

"Thanks," he said finally, before putting the tip to his forehead. He'd never extracted a memory before, but he'd seen Snape do it many times… It couldn't be too hard, could it? He focused intensely on the memory he wished to bring forth, and then, sure enough, it floated to the front of his mind… He summoned it with the pull of the wand and felt it connecting there, and when he pulled the tip away from his temple it was to find an ethereal stand of silver attached to it…

He grinned, gracefully dropping the ghostly tendril down into the Pensieve. He then handed the wand back to Ron, deeply missing his own.

"Ready?" he said, putting his arms out on either side of him, his palms facing up.

They both nodded. Ron grasped his right hand, Hermione his left, and, together, they plunged down into the obsidian basin.

"…from this day forward, there shall be a Taboo on the name of Harry James Potter, and every shortened variation of the name."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione landed in a dark hall. Flames crackled softly from a fireplace at the far end, bathing the room in an eerie, orange glow. Over a dozen people sat around a long table in the center, dark robes and pale faces half-lit in the dim light. And there, in the middle…

Hermione and Ron jumped at the same time. "Evans," Hermione gasped, horrified. Her eyes darted around the room, and Harry knew she was looking for him.

"How…?"

"Just watch," Harry answered darkly. He glanced over at the motionless snake in the corner, wary.

Lord Voldemort was leaning back languidly in his seat. His spidery hands were folded in front of him, starkly white against his black robes. The hood of his cloak was pulled over his head, casting his sinister facial features in shadow. His scarlet eyes peered out from the darkness like embers. Clearly visible, vibrant as fresh blood.

Ron and Hermione watched with stunned faces. Whatever hostility they'd harbored towards each other just moments ago in the kitchen completely disappeared. Hermione

was shaking, leaning into Ron's chest. He put an arm around her shoulder comfortingly, though he looked equally afraid.

Harry paced around the table, taking advantage of this opportunity to study his former captor.

Lord Voldemort…

"A Taboo, my Lord?" a blonde man across the table from Voldemort said.

"Yes, Yaxley…" Voldemort said softly, and Harry saw Hermione and Ron both shudder out of the corner of his eye. "A Taboo. From this day forward, Harry Potter is to be referred to as Undesirable Number One. Anyone foolish enough to say his full name shall be taken into custody. Punishments will be severe. See to it that Thicknesse puts this into effect. Immediately."

There was a tense moment where Voldemort stared at him with narrowed, piercing eyes that seemed to flash in agitation. Yaxley looked both confused and frightened.

"…Immediately," he hissed softly.

Yaxley, finally understanding that he was being dismissed to carry out this task right at that very moment, jumped to his feet. "Yes, of course, my apologies, my Lord…" he muttered before rushing out the door, nearly passing right where Ron and Hermione now stood.

"How poetic," Voldemort said once Yaxley had gone. "To think, it has been my name which all wizards and witches have grown to fear; my name which no one dares to speak…and yet the same shall also be true of the supposed 'Chosen One'…" His fiery gaze swept down the table, settling on another blonde at the far end.

"How goes the hunt for the infamous Undesirable, Lucius?" he asked lightly.

Ron and Hermione turned to observe the older Malfoy, but Harry kept his attention on the Dark Lord.

_ You were right, _ he thought to himself as he stared into those red, red, eyes which could not see him.

_ You were right. Love makes you weak. It makes you stupid. _

"…Simply vanished…" Voldemort eventually hissed, after a moment. 

"There is nothing!" Lucius spluttered, his voice cracking. "No traces anywhere! Not even Dumbledore had—"

Several people made angry hissing noises at the name, and Bellatrix actually snarled. The older Malfoy fell silent at once.

Sound enough, all the Death Eaters gathered around the table were toasting Snape, even Bellatrix, though it was rather begrudgingly. Harry finally tore his gaze away from the Dark Lord to make his way back around the table towards his friends.

"You might want to step back," he muttered, guiding them away from the currently stationery serpent near the fire.

They silently complied. It was obvious that they were both burning with unasked questions, but were too caught up in the memory, too focused on what was happening to risk missing something.

"…Perhaps I should have Severus take over the task of finding the Undesirable, as he seems to be one of the only capable beings amongst you…"

Hysteria ensued.

Hermione and Ron both screamed as Nagini lunged with nearly impossible speed, and even he, Harry, jumped at the sudden severity of it.

The entire ordeal was much more violent than it had felt, even then.

Bones cracked with a sickening snap. Severus Snape was falling to the ground and Nagini was killing him—blood was pooling on the wooden floor as every single person in the room got to their feet, their wands raised—

_ "Nagini!" _

The sound of Voldemort's startled parseltongue caused the hairs on Harry's entire body to stand on end. And when he answered back with that serpentine tongue…

_ "…Wrong…" _

And then, Draco.

This is what he'd wanted to see, this is what he'd wanted to know…

Malfoy had made a run for it, was at the door, and Harry hadn't been able to recall, exactly, as it had all passed in such a frenzied blur of blood and rage and red. But now, now he could see, quite clearly…

Draco raised his wand. Nagini's deadly fangs sunk into his thigh, and the wand dropped uselessly at his side as the massive serpent dragged him to the floor…

_ Yes… _

Voldemort cast a very complicated-looking spell, and his pet was gathered up into a sparkling, glittering orb… And Harry knew then, as the Dark Lord approached the floating sphere with a piercing glare, that he was casting Harry out, banishing him… Nagini hissed and writhed in agony, in pure pain as the two furious wizards mentally battled for control of her body… Voldemort won, and then…

The memory vanished. Harry, Ron and Hermione reappeared in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place.

The others were both shaking with aftershock, their faces ghostly white. But Harry was laughing before his feet had even hit the ground. When had he started laughing?

"Don't you get it?" he said when Ron and Hermione did nothing but stare at him as he continued to laugh. "That—that was me!"

They exchanged worried glances, not understanding. Harry grinned, perhaps a bit manically.

"That was me! I was in the snake, I was possessing Nagini's body—I attacked and damn near killed Snape, I took Draco down, made him drop his wand, I'm—"

Harry's next words died before they could escape his mouth, replaced instead with a sound that was similar, perhaps, to the sound a cat might make if its tail had just been stepped on by someone Hagrid’s size.

Because of course Snape would choose that moment to reappear.

Of course he would be silently waiting in the corner of the room for them to return from whatever memory they were in. He looked… Well, he looked like he'd been struck by lightning earlier that day. Which he had.

Because of Harry.

His sallow face was terribly bruised; the colors painted on his pale features were like an artistic study in various shades of violet and blue. His hair was singed on one side, frazzled and sticking out disorderly, and his robes were burnt and worn. He must have just woken up to have not so much as changed his clothes…

He was smiling.

Smiling, deceptively benign. Like he was so amused, so pleasantly entertained.

Harry's heart felt like it was stuck somewhere in his throat. He froze, staring at Snape with huge eyes. 

"No, please, go on," Snape said in a silky voice that contrasted greatly with his appearance.

"I am simply  _ dying  _ to hear how this story ends."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. 
> 
> For those of you who have read the first iteration of this, please refrain from making such comments. This is a re-write of an old story. That has been established. I would appreciate it if you would not post spoilers in the comments section and would, generally speaking, not address the fact that this is a re-do of an old fic. I'm super aware of that. And please don't ask what I plan on changing from the last version. I don't know. I'm just gonna wing it and change it however I want as I go. I'm as interested as you are to see what happens here. And no, I am not sharing the old version. If you happen to have that one downloaded somewhere, I would appreciate it if you didn't spread it around. I took it down because I didn't like the quality of the writing. This version will be better. 
> 
> As an aside, if you are interested in reading some of my original works, you can find the link to them on my tumblr, here:  
> https://obsidianpen.tumblr.com/fiction


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